


Saved By Mana'Din

by Feynite



Series: Sharkbait [7]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Feynite Fanwork, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-15 23:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 191,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: Wherein Thenvunin and Uthvir are rescued from an unhappy set of circumstances by interdimensional shenanigans, and the Clusterfuck AU is born.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To make sense of this story, you'll probably want to have read the Traded to Andruil installments of the Hunter's Child AU's. And Also The Hunter's Child, too, of course!

It takes Mana’Din a while to realize what has happened. What went wrong when she was investigating that caved-in vault that had been buried beneath one of Falon’Din’s settlements, rife with odd energies and magical resonances, and shattered eluvian pieces.

She has moved through time again.

At first it seems to her that she has simply gone back to a period before Falon’Din’s death. She finds herself in a village in his lands, and is very grateful for her mask, and her ability to convincingly comport herself as a high-ranking elf whom no one – especially not humble villagers in the service of the most ruthless of evanuris – would think to question. It allows her to make her way to the nearest eluvian with little fuss.

She is not certain how to feel about matters, at first. On the one hand, going back to a time before Falon’Din’s death means that she has gone back to a time before he wiped out a large percentage of his populace. A massacre that might now be prevented. On the other hand, all the work she had already done, to empty out the slave camps, to try and build something, is undone. Falon’Din’s atrocities are ongoing once again, and without the… dip in his population numbers, there would be little to justify her claiming the camps from the other evanuris.

It is only once she gets to Arlathan that she realizes matters are even more complex than that.

It takes her a while, but she manages to gather most of the information she needs from the spirits in the city. The crowds offer her a degree of anonymity, and she is glad that she had not made a habit of dressing more opulently than most high-ranking elves might. But it begins to seem to her that she does not even have to worry about disguising her voice, or changing her mannerisms – even elves she had known fairly well in her younger years show no spark of recognition when she passes them by.

How far back did she go, she wonders? And yet it seems by the fashions and styles and the state of the city that she could not have gone very far back at all. A few hundred years, at most.

The spirits… illuminate the further complications for her.

She has not gone far back in time at all, by what accounts of current goings-on she can gather; of ages and histories and the state of affairs in the empire. Falon’Din  _should_  be dead. Yet it seems this is not only a matter of times, but of worlds. She has moved sideways through the barriers of the crossroads. To another stream of fate and circumstance, and it is only when she plucks up the latest rumours that she realizes the true difference. The branching point of events.

In this world, it has only been a few years since Andruil ostensibly found a mysterious infant in the woods. Andruil, not Dirthamen. And  _now,_  not a thousand years ago. She was not here in this timeline of events, she realizes. To try and sway some of the bad decisions of her family, to rile Falon’Din, to alter the course of things. She is still a toddler or small child, by her reckoning; off being raised by some champion hunter.

Further inquiries along those lines only produce more disturbing information.

The hunter’s name is not one she recognizes. But the rumours tell they had sought out a servant of Mythal whose name she  _is_  passingly familiar with, to help raise their new ‘child’. Only, by the grim accounts of the Spirit of Fortune she finds, Andruil had traded Mythal for the servant – Thenvunin – and had ‘made sport’ of him.

This puts her in mind of odd, random hunts, and tournaments, until she recalls some of the predilections which Andruil tries to be more… discreet about, where her relatives are concerned. Whispers and talk and observations from spirits that have had her looking askance at her aunt for a long while. It is concerning, she decides. She must get back to her own time, her own  _world_ , if she is to carry on with what she can carry on with. She is even more absurdly wrong-footed than usual in this place, and with no markings on her face, there are only so many options if she remains here.

But either way, she thinks, she should look after herself. Her own self, and that littler version of herself, still caught in the frustrating upheaval of being a child again. Still so comparatively  _young_ , even if she might be older than she looks. Barely past thirty, lost and grief-stricken and carrying the weight of the world.

And this suffering Andruil is likely causing, over some game of foundlings and hunters and poor Thenvunin… well.

That should not be left to stand.

~

She finds out that the little family is housed in Andruil’s palace. It takes her some doing to imitate Ghilan’nain’s vallaslin on her face, but it seems a more prudent disguise for her destination than vague affiliations with Falon’Din. Ghilan’nain’s people are common enough in Andruil’s territory, but not quite so widely recognized as Andruil’s own people, and are more prone to making sudden jumps in rank. She holds herself like and elf accustomed to her station, and the hunters permit her passage with courtesy, and only mild curiosity. Wondering what might be at hand; not questioning her disguise.

It takes her relatively little time, in fact, to find what she is looking for. She heads into the palace courtyard of one of her aunt’s preferred estates, and has a brief conversation with one of the high-ranking hunters about speaking to Andruil on behalf of Ghilan’nain. It helps that she knows the right courtesies for it all. But as they are speaking, she notices a particular sort of silhouette from the corner of her eye; someone carrying a small child.

She finishes with her courtesies, and is informed that Andruil should be back as soon as her current hunt has concluded. And then she turns and looks, and sees a disconcertingly familiar toddler in the arms of a tall, blond elf. In the halla paddock.

Halla.

They always give her a moment’s pause. Even after all this time. Even after years spent in Ghilan’nain’s lands, and even after receiving three of her own as gifts. But today they cannot quite compete with the sight of her own much younger self, staring at them with blatant adoration as an elf who can only be Thenvunin holds her up in front of one. Murmuring gentle words that she cannot quite make out.

After watching at a distance for a moment, she finds herself frowning. She knows Thenvunin. Not well, but. He has a distinctive personality. Proud. Regal. Flashy. Stuck-up, if anything. The sort of man who spends most of his day with his nose in the air. But this creature in the halla pens makes her think more of her own followers, especially in the early days when the camps had first emptied. He looks thinner than he should. Stretched too tightly over his own frame. And there are shadows under his eyes, and his skin is wan. His clothes are humble. Simple, and just slightly revealing, in a manner she would not expect him to choose for himself. The toddler hides most of the long dip of his collar, but the adornments on his biceps look like chains. And they are the only flashy item he is wearing, and they do not, she thinks, suit him.

With care, she moves closer.

As soon as she gets near enough for her shadow to pass across his shoulder, Thenvunin jumps like a startled rabbit. He turns, holding her toddler self closely, and putting his back to the halla. Wide eyes lock with her own and then immediately lower; only to dart up, again. Tracing the lines of her vallaslin.

Her toddler-self stares at her in obvious surprise.

“I am sorry. I should not have approached so quietly,” she says, tone as gentle as she can manage. Keeping her hands in front of herself, and her expression friendly.

“You are a servant of Ghilan’nain’s,” Thenvunin notes. “Did… you come over… because of my daughter, yes? To see the baby?”

He sounds so nervous, as if there might have been another reason for her to approach him. And then all at once she puts it together. The humbler clothing, the unease, the odd styling.

Oh,  _Andruil._

She has to fight to keep her sudden outrage down. She  _would_ , too. For any number of possible reasons, although what poor Thenvunin could have done to outrage her badly enough to acquire him, and then ensure his degradation, she doesn’t know. He seems quite attached to her younger self, who is still staring at her like she can’t quite work out what’s going on. But even if she does not know the reason, the results are obvious. He has been made prey for this pack of hunters.

She catches her infant self’s eye. After a moment, the young version of her reaches over, and curls a hand pointedly into Thenvunin’s shirt.

“Papa,” she asserts. Informing Mana’Din of his importance.

Thenvunin looks down at her, clearly wondering why he is being addressed. He jostles her a little bit, and then looks hesitantly back up again.

“She likes the halla,” he ventures.

“Of course she does,” Mana’Din replies. “Can I ask for her name?”

Thenvunin seems to be on slightly steadier ground with that question.

“Lavellan,” he tells her. She wonders how her little self swung  _that_ , and if he somehow knows her true origins. But it doesn’t seem like it, she thinks. Just going off of the atmosphere. The way he holds her, and interacts with her, betrays nothing of any awareness of an intelligence beyond the normal expectations of a baby. If anything, he seems half terrified that she’s going to swoop in and try to take the baby from his arms.

She smiles.

“What a perfect name. Does she have any other parents?”

“Nanae!” Lavellan – the little one, but Mana’Din supposes she can keep the name between them; given just who has an extra lying around – asserts. Thenvunin looks up at the gates, eyes wide, as if he expects to see that Andruil’s party has returned early. But of course, that is not what Lavellan means.

Thenvunin swallows, and then smiles down at his toddler. He presses a kiss to her head, and the tenderness in him makes Mana’Din ache a bit. Dirthamen has been a good father, in so many ways. But affection did not come easily to him, did not occur to him unless he was prompted towards it. Especially not in the beginning. She has no complaints, but even so. It is very… moving, seeing it given to her small self so easily.

“Just so,” Thenvunin says. “We have Nanae, do we not?”

There is something very brittle about him. Something that reminds her of Elalas, almost; of that resilience pulled tight over a great, deep well of fear. But it’s very close to the surface in Thenvunin. Very recent, and raw.

She looks at her younger self, and wonders what answers she might be able to get from her, if she could only steal an opportunity.

“May I hold her?” she asks.

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Thenvunin takes a step back, and this time, when his eyes dart back towards the main gate, it is as if he  _hopes_  the hunting party is returning.

“Please,” he says. “I have to watch my daughter. Uthvir is with the hunting party, with Andruil. Looking after her is one of my duties. If you are in need of a diversion, the palace offers many more interesting than myself.”

 _Shit,_  she thinks. Do they really just take the baby away from him, and…?

…Of course they do.

Lavellan turns towards him, and reaches up to pat at his cheek, obviously trying to be as reassuring as a little toddler can.

“I am not here to solicit you,” Mana’Din promises.

Thenvunin looks at his baby, and then towards her again. And then at his baby again.

A new, different note of uncertainty enters into his expression.

“Who are you?” he asks.

She debates the answer to that question for a long moment.

“I am… connected to her,” she finally settles on saying, with a nod towards her infant self. “And I would like to help you.”

At that, a spark of something steely comes into Thenvunin’s gaze. He scowls at her, and shifts Lavellan in his grasp; moving her higher onto one of his shoulders, and holding her with one arm; angled away from Mana’Din, as if bracing for a fight.

“She is  _my_  child,” he says, low. “I have loved her and looked after her and bled for her. Her nanae won the rights to her, and if you think you can come here and receive anything but scorn, you had better reconsider. She was found in the woods. Alone. Abandoned. Anyone who would claim a connection to  _that_  is not welcome. I may have fallen from grace, but do not imagine I am so pathetic that I would subject her to mistreatment for my own sake.”

A jaw in his muscle clenches as he speaks.

Lavellan leans over and plants a wet, smacking kiss against his cheek. It’s incongruent enough with the atmosphere of the moment to make him blink, as she pats at his face again.

“Papa,” she says. “It alright, Papa. Lavlan is safe. Okay?”

Thenvunin’s expression falls.

“Of course you are safe,” he says, glancing at Mana’Din, before curling his free hand around his daughter’s head. “Of course you are. No matter what.”

“Papa is safe, too. And Nanae. Safe with Lavlan.”

Lavellan looks towards Mana’Din at this.

Mana’Din inclines her head in acknowledgement. Yes. Thenvunin will be safe. And so will this mysterious ‘nanae’ she has acquired, too.

“Forgive me. That was an unclear introduction. My name is Mana’Din,” she offers, sweeping into a low bow that does only a little to banish Thenvunin’s frown. She keeps her hands visible, and her gestures slow and deliberate. “And I am no true servant of Ghilan’nain. I am from another world. Just like she is.”

She nods to Lavellan.

Thenvunin looks like he can’t tell if this is a terrible, cruel joke, or a lie, or possibly a reason to let some faint, heartbroken hope seep into his aura.

“Am I supposed to believe that?” he asks her, even so.

“Ya, it true,” Lavellan tells him.

He blinks at her uncertainly.

She kisses his cheek again.

But before their conversation can progress any further, they are interrupted by the arrival of another elf. A mid-or-high ranking hunter. They are dressed casually, making it difficult to tell. Short, but broader than Thenvunin, with an aura of intent that Mana’Din does not like the looks of.

“Well, what is going on here?” they ask, as Thenvunin takes a rather telling step back. “Did you find someone else with an interest in babysitting awhile, Thenvunin?”

“As if I would just hand my child off to the nearest stranger,” he snaps at them.

“Such insolence from someone so lowly,” the hunter tsk’s, glancing at her. “Can you believe it? As if our clearly  _esteemed_  guest from Ghilan’nain is some ‘stranger’. Give the baby over to her, Thenvunin. Tend some other duties a while, hmm?”

The leer in their tone leaves little ambiguity as to what those ‘duties’ might be.

“No,” Lavellan says, gripping Thenvunin’s shirt with tiny, white-knuckled fists, and burying her face against him. “No, no, no!”

Mana’Din can feel it rolling off of her. The frustration, the anger. That this has happened too many times. That she does the only thing she can do, in that tiny body, and uses the advantage of her childhood to try and keep Thenvunin close. Interfere, and project her own distress until people like this hunter leave him be.

“You are upsetting her,” Mana’Din says.

“Nah. The babe is just the possessive type,” the hunter replies, as if conspiratorially. “Still needs to learn how to share. Just like her nanae. You take her for a bit and she will calm down, and you can have a fine time with her while I have a fine time with her papa.”

Thenvunin is trying to calm Lavellan, obviously anxious himself.

Mana’Din looks. It is a sunny day. A lot of activity in the main courtyard. The halla have moved off to graze a bit. Their tender is busy inside the stables, out of sight of the main paddock, but likely still within hearing range. No one is paying them much mind. An ivy-strewn tree is providing Thenvunin with some shelter, and the shadow it casts is over top of them all.

Reaching over, she grasps the hunter by the back of the neck, angles her wrist, and pushes upwards. The knife in her sleeve  _clicks_  softly as it shoots forwards, clean through flesh and bone and straight into their brain. They gasp, and twitch. She moves them quickly over towards the tree, angling them against the base of it and holding them there until the worst of the twitching stops. Then she closes their eyelids, and settles them down at the base of the trunk; as if napping in the afternoon light.

The halla don’t even startle.

She glances up, and Thenvunin is staring at her with wide, wide eyes, as he keeps Lavellan’s face buried against his shoulder. Using his hair to block her view of the goings on.

“You killed them,” he whispers.

“Yes, well. I have no intention of leaving you here,” she replies. “Might as well do some clean-up before we go.”

“Where go?” Lavellan asks, trying to move around and look at her, despite Thenvunin’s best efforts at thwarting that.

“My home,” she decides. Not that she is entirely certain of how to manage that. But she has seen enough to know that it is not in her to leave things like this, and. Well. It is what she can offer. What she’s  _learned_  to offer, really. Sanctuary, insofar as she can manage it, to whom she can extend it.

“I needa stay,” Lavellan tells her, wavering with sorrow. “Needa fix it. Take Papa and Nanae.”

“What?” Thenvunin asks, alarmed, it seems, by any and all possible implications of that statement.

“I do not think they will go without you,” Mana’Din replies. Nor, come to it, would she leave her young self behind.

She had not realized how… cute she was, as a baby. But of course she was. And yet, even knowing full well that the tiny toddler in Thenvunin’s grasp is actually several decades old, and has lived those decades more thoroughly than most ancient elves do, it is difficult not to think of her as a child. A child with memories bigger than herself. But still a small, vulnerable, hurt little person, who needs help.

“Papa is not going anywhere without you,” Thenvunin says, cuddling Lavellan close. “What could you possibly fix? You are a baby. It is my job to be fixing things, if it is anyone’s.”

Lavellan trembles a little, losing herself to some of her sorrow. Misery. Oh, Mana’Din knows that feeling well. Being trapped in that form. It has been a long time, but she still remembers being so desperate to figure out what she was meant to  _do,_  what Solas had wanted from her.

“Needa fix it,” Lavellan repeats, softly.

“Shh. No. No you do not,” Thenvunin says, his own eyes going watery. He looks towards Mana’Din. “I do not know what is going on here. But if she stays, then so do I.”

“Fortunately, she will not be staying,” Mana’Din says. “She is still small enough for you to carry, after all. And she does not even really know what she is doing. She is just distressed.”

That, at least, seems to make sense to Thenvunin. He carries his child a little further away from the dead hunter, and closer to the halla again, murmuring soft, soothing nonsense at her. Amazing how effective that can be, though.

Mana’Din weighs her options, and then decides. She will get them away first, she thinks. She knows some hidden routes out of Andruil’s palace. Not all of them, obviously, and none that Andruil herself cannot interfere with. But the Andruil of this world does not yet know that she might  _need_  to interfere. That could change, later.

She catches Thenvunin’s eye, and motions at him to come with her.

He hesitates.

But after a moment he does, and she heads towards the palace interior. A few hunters stop them, but only to ask if Thenvunin wants them to ‘watch the baby’ for him. He declines, and after the first few frowns over that, starts saying that someone else has already agreed to. That excuse is accepted readily enough, at least. And he earns a few sympathetic looks too, she notes.

But no one tries to stall them for any other reasons.

Thenvunin  _does_  hesitate as she leads him towards the hall the branches off to Andruil’s chambers. She takes a moment to prod him gently along, and if she had doubted before the… extent to which things have been done to him, and who has done them, it’s a doubt that is definitely being strained.

He flinches a bit, under her hand.

“It is alright,” she tells him. “There is a passageway. We are going to take it out of the palace grounds, to one of the campsites off by the eastern roads.”

Thenvunin hesitates, again.

“What if there are hunters there?” he wonders. “And I will need things. Supplies. Food for Lavellan, and clothes…”

“We will not be staying there,” she tells him. She knows the access secrets for dozens of different winter villas and seasonal residents in a handful of territories that will be empty, this time of year. There are three she knows for certain, in Dirthamen’s lands, that will have no one about and plenty of supplies, and can be reached by the simple means of an eluvian and the right passwords.

“Where we go?” Lavellan wonders. “Nanae?”

“I will come back for your Nanae,” Mana’Din promises.

“If we go missing, Andruil will be angry. She will think Uthvir did something,” Thenvunin says, his brow furrowing. Lavellan stuffs a hand up anxiously by her mouth.

“Then we had best move quickly. The sooner I can secure you two, the sooner I can come and get this Uthvir of yours,” Mana’Din reasons.

“I stay,” Lavellan says. “Take Papa. I stay. Andruil no be mad, Lavlan say Papa sleep. Work too hard. Buy time.”

“Absolutely not,” Thenvunin tells her, aghast.

“He is not going to leave without you,” Mana’Din repeats. Her younger self looks anxious about the whole affair. She considers her for a moment, staring into her eyes.

“Trust me,” she asks.

“…No fail?” Lavellan wonders.

Coming from anyone else, that might sting. But they know. Both of them know, how easy it is to fail, even when it matters. Even when you’ve done your best, given it your all. Even when there might have been no one else who could have succeeded.

When fate should have been kinder.

“On my honour,” she promises.

Thenvunin looks uncertainly between them.

But at that, she gets them into the escape passage with her. It is narrow, of course. Mostly meant for Andruil, and any visiting evanuris that might also be in dire need of it. Should there be some disastrous level of revolt, she was told. Of course, it is also convenient enough, if the huntress wants to dart out to her hunting grounds without drawing notice.

She suspects this particular passage sees more use on that front.

They walk single file, and she asks Thenvunin about this hunter who won her younger self in a tournament. Uthvir. Thenvunin describes them plainly. Height, build, colouring. They wear red. They have sharp teeth and claws, and can usually be found at Andruil’s side. They are  _favoured_  by her, and the way the term falls from his lips carries a host of implications all its own.

“And you want to keep them?” she double-checks. “They will not betray you?”

“They love Lavellan,” Thenvunin says. “And they feel… obliged towards me.”

“Love Papa,” Lavellan says.

“I know you do, sweetheart,” Thenvunin replies, softly, pressing another kiss to the top of her head.

Mana’Din lets it go, at that. Her younger self seems set upon it. And anyway, she knows, matters of the heart are rarely neat and simple and straightforward. Sometimes they twist and turn oddly. Horrible tragedy and abuses rarely help with that.

They get about halfway down the passage before Thenvunin starts to have some second-thoughts and anxious fits. What if they are caught? What if the hunters have already come back and figured them out? What if they come through the tunnel to find Andruil waiting for them? What if the end of it is sealed? What if their absence has been noticed, and hunters are following them already? He cannot seem to decide if they should keep pressing forwards or go back. Which would be riskier. Which would afford them the better opportunity.

“I cannot believe I am doing this,” he says. “I do not even know you. Andruil will kill me. She will brand me a traitor and kill me.”

“She will have to get through me,” Mana’Din tells him.

“And that would be difficult?” Thenvunin asks, scoffing.

“Ya,” Lavellan tells him.

Thenvunin shifts her. All of Mana’Din’s offers to take over carrying her have been firmly denied.

“And how would you know that?” he asks his little girl. But his tone is lighter. Gentler. Some of the fear bleeds out of it, as Lavellan leans against his shoulder and plays with his hair a bit. Gets him humming at her. The tune gives Mana’Din pause. It is a lullaby.

It… must be a common one, she supposes.

Dirthamen used to hum it, too.  _This is to help you sleep,_  he would say, when she was small and having troubles with it.

As Thenvunin carries on, she finds her own voice drifting up to join in. Humming along.

They taper off by the time they reach the end of the passage. And there are no hunters waiting for them. Nothing but the small cave, and then green grass, and tangled trees; and past them, verdant hills that roll down towards the road.

Lavellan’s infant body finally wins over her mind, then, and she falls asleep in Thenvunin’s arms as they make their way to where she is  _fairly_  certain they will find an eluvian. And if not, well… they have a few more hours of walking than she intended, before they will  _definitely_ find one.

Thenvunin is quiet. Tired. Exhaustion has become a new trend for him, she thinks, and he has not learned how to manage it yet. And in fairness, she supposes he was not expecting to flee Andruil’s palace and walk such a distance with his child in his arms.

“Just let me carry her awhile,” Mana’Din asks, as his steps falter. “Please. I will not run off with her, I promise.”

Thenvunin looks at her blankly for a moment. His gaze travels over her, taking her in. And then he looks at his daughter, and after a long, long moment, hands her carefully into Mana’Din’s arms. Her younger self barely stirs. Only makes a face before resting her cheek at Mana’Din’s shoulder; soft and warm and as baby-like as any real infant she has ever held.

Even the emotions coming off of her feel simple, in the right way.

No wonder Dirthamen had always insisted she was a baby, no matter what she recalled or how smart she had been.

“Are you her mother?” Thenvunin asks, and Mana’Din feels an odd lurch of surprise at the question.

“No,” she refutes, immediately. Though, as the surprise wears off, she supposes she can see where he might get that idea. Mysterious baby, woman shows up who looks exactly like her, wants to help, professes a ‘connection’ to her…

A more obvious answer than the truth, really.

“Then who are you to her?” Thenvunin asks, keeping close. He is near to stumbling over his own feet, though.

She slows her pace a bit.

What to say? The truth seems like the obvious answer, but she hardly knows Thenvunin. She knows he has been wronged, that he loves his child, that this young version of herself seems quite attached to him. But what would be the cost of divulging her actual secrets to him?

“I will not say,” she decides. “Not yet.”

“How did she end up in that forest?” Thenvunin asks, and now his tone is sharp. Brittle. Angry on his child’s behalf.

Mana’Din sighs.

“Someone tried to save her life,” she says. “But it did not go according to plan.”

At least, she doesn’t  _think_  it did. She’s mostly accepted that she’ll never really know for certain.

“How was her life in danger?” Thenvunin asks.

“The whole world was burning,” Mana’Din admits.

He falls silent, at that.

In point of fact he says very little for the rest of their trek. When they reach the eluvian, he asks for Lavellan back. Seems almost like he’s afraid she’ll refuse, until he actually gets his child settled into his arms again. Then they make their way through quiet paths in the crossroads, as Thenvunin keeps one hand on his daughter’s head. Shielding her eyes from any possible bright reflections or unexpected permutations in the spaces between spaces.

Dirthamen had made a special hood for her, she recalls.

She finds that her passwords work, and leads Thenvunin out to what is, in fact, one of the small, buried chambers beneath Arlathan itself. The guest rooms are almost never in use, but like all Arlathan holdings, they are stocked so that they may be, at a moment’s notice. She leaves her charges by the mirror as she double-checks to make certain that no stray servants have unluckily chosen this day of the month to clean and replenish supplies, and then leads them towards the bedrooms.

“Food is in the small store room just off the main hall. The bedrooms are stocked. There will not be a crib, but I suspect you can make do,” she tells him. The walls are blue, lit with patterns of light that move like sunshine on the surface of a clear pool. There are a lot of mirrors. Thenvunin stares at his reflection a moment, before dragging his gaze rather pointedly away.

“Where are we?” he asks.

“In one of Dirthamen’s holdings. If any servants come, you tell them you were sent here by the raven’s wings. They will leave you alone,” she promises. Maybe not  _indefinitely_ , but long enough for her to do what needs to be done, she thinks. Unless Dirthamen’s protocols are drastically different. But that isn’t one she came up with, and he can be surprisingly set in his ways. Given the unlikelihood of a servant even appearing, she is willing to wager on it.

Of course, there remains the question of how she will get them all back to her own world. She may not be able to. But in that case, she can make other plans. There is, she supposes, something to be said for knowing half the secrets of the evanuris, when the evanuris have no idea that she does. That she even exists.

Dirthamen does not know who she is, in this world.

That feels… strange.

She shakes her head. It will hardly matter if she gets back; and if she does not, she can deal with it later. For now, she has this Uthvir to rescue, and Andruil to deal with.

Reaching out, she pats Thenvunin on the shoulder.

“You can rest here,” she assures him.

“What will you do?” he wonders.

“Deal with Andruil, of course,” she asserts.

He pauses, and shakes his head.

“This is mad. I have lost my mind. What if you do not come back? How do we get out?” he asks.

“You take the eluvian,” she says. “It will open automatically from this side. You go wherever you think is safest. But give me a grace period, if you please. Things are going to get… chaotic.”

Thenvunin stares at her, and he looks so tired she can  _feel_  how tired he must but. Down deep in his bones, and past them. To places he probably didn’t even realize could hurt so badly. Could keep hurting, after the wounds are knit, and the demons are gone.

“Andruil is a monster,” he warns her.

She thinks of her aunt, lifting up her into the front of her mount. Riding with her, showing her the ranges and mountain peaks in her territory; explaining the nature of some of the some strange, wild spirits they passed, and beasts the likes of which she had never seen before. Returning her to Dirthamen with an airy compliment to her attentiveness, and a fond ruffling of her hair.

“I know,” she admits.

In this world, and many others.

She pats Thenvunin’s shoulder again.

“Go rest,” she says. “I will come back with your Uthvir. And then I will take you home.”

One way or another, really.

~

When she gets back to the palace, the sun is setting, and the hunters haven’t even returned from their expedition. The dead elf is still propped against his tree; though the halla tender is calling her two wandering charges into the stables, the beautiful animals only lope over, and no one seems to remark the ‘napping’ hunter.

Mana’Din makes polite conversation with a few more of Andruil’s people. Remarking on the weather, the likely prizes of their lady’s hunt. How much longer the party should be. What the dining hall might be serving for dinner. She is in the midst of a good-natured debate over the superiority of various pie fillings – and it is rather nice, actually, to be able to converse with people so easily again – when at last the main gates open, and Andruil’s group makes their return.

She takes a moment to sweep her gaze over the whole of the group. It doesn’t take her long to pinpoint the red-clad hunter at Andruil’s side. They are one of the few hunters who seem to be scouring the courtyard in turn, their gaze flitting swiftly over the halla paddock, and the open grounds, and then the entrances to the palace, while Andruil is busy dismounting. Their brows furrow, for an instant. IF she hadn’t been looking right at them she might have missed it. And then they swing down from their saddle themselves, and set about having the various spoils of the day taken in to be dealt with. Snapping orders, as Andruil stretches and compliments one of her attendants on something or other.

Mana’Din considers making her move then. But she can time it better, she thinks.

Uthvir grabs one of the passing servants. Whatever they say is too low for her to hear, but they seem to be hissing it. The servant only shakes their head and shrugs, and then gestures towards her. The say something brief in reply, before moving on to their duties.

The red hunter fixes her with a long, assessing look.

They stride towards her. She folds her arms in front of herself, attempting to look neutral and authoritative. It is easier with the mask, really.

“Good evening, Hunter,” she greets.

“Traveller. I understand you availed yourself of one of my lady’s servants,” Uthvir says, surprisingly indifferent in tone, for all that she can feel  _something_  straining just-so at the air between them. “Would you happen to know where he is now? And my daughter, who would have been with him, most likely?”

“He is resting,” she says.

“I hope you did not tire him too much,” the hunter replies. They maintain their neutral air but that certain straining-something snaps towards menace. Anger. Frustration, so faint that it would be easy to deny, or play off as some lingering intensity from the hunt.

They seem almost as cornered as Thenvunin in their way, if prone to somewhat different coping mechanisms.

“I fear I may have,” she admits.

“Thenvunin is less adept at some duties than others. Next time you visit, I can recommend someone a little more befitting a guest,” Uthvir says, with hollow affability.

“I doubt the need will arise,” she tells them.

The moment strains further.

“I hope he did not displease you,” the hunter says, then.

“Not in the least. I found he handled himself in a most exemplary fashion,” she replies. There is a brief note of surprise from this Uthvir, then, before Andruil steals her attention back – and not even by directly approaching. The woman frowns towards the halla pen, and snaps something to a nearby servant about laziness.

Ah.

It has come to it, then.

She nods towards Uthvir.

“You might want to leave the courtyard now,” she suggests.

At which point, she strides towards Andruil, and moves as swiftly as she can manage. The more she draws this out, the more opportunity the evanuris will have to try and use her ‘resources’ to escape retribution.

The element of surprise is on her side, however.

~

In the end, she has to make her way back to Dirthamen’s bolthole beneath the city with a few new wounds to speak of, a gaggle of enraged-and-terrified hunters on her heels, and a thoroughly unconscious Uthvir slung over her shoulder.

Fortunately, she knows how to cover her tracks.

A quick check of the little estate reveals that no one else has come or gone since she left it. Still, she feels some concern as she looks into the bedrooms, and finds them empty; until she discovers Thenvunin and Lavellan, at last, nestled in a cluster of spare blankets behind the change room partition in one of the bathrooms. A fountain quietly runs nearby, and the pair are situated so as to be impossible to see from the door. Thenvunin is sleeping.

He looks thoroughly exhausted.

Lavellan is on a blanket next to him, but she is quite awake now herself; apparently happy to stand guard while her adoptive father rests. The toddler blinks up at her, quiet and unsurprisingly well-behaved until she sees Uthvir.

“Nanae!” she exclaims, then. Loudly.

Mana’Din suspects the reaction is more reflexive and visceral than not.

“They are alright,” she promises, and carefully works the hunter down onto the ground. Next to the blanket nest. It’s a relief; their armour hasn’t been comfortable to carry, even if they aren’t particularly heavy.

Thenvunin stirs as Lavellan crawls over, and pats at the unconscious hunter’s cheek. She looks up at Mana’Din questioningly.

Mana’Din shrugs.

“It was just simpler this way,” she explains. “They should wake up soon.”

Lavellan lets out a sight that sounds about forty years too old for her visible age, and then Thenvunin wakes up.

“Uthvir!” he exclaims.

Like daughter, like father.

The man hastily checks over his partner, looking for signs of injuries or damage. In the end she has to explain things to him a bit more thoroughly before he even begins to relax. But she notes the way he hand lingers on the hunter’s forehead, and how he draws them closer; trying to draw them further into the brief, unsustainable little sanctuary that he has made.

How long has he been living by stolen moments, she wonders? Unable to escape the surrounding horror, and left with no recourse but to savour even the briefest sanctuaries instead. To wish that time would stop, and simply let him live in the minutes between horrors.

Long enough, she supposes.

“Have you eaten?” she asks.

“Yes,” Thenvunin says.

Lavellan catches her eye, and points at him, and shakes her head, though. He probably fed the baby and then collapsed in an exhausted heap, Mana’Din guesses.

Well. They have some time.

“I will be back,” she says.

Turning, she leaves the little family to their reunions, and heads for the estate’s store rooms. There’s no trace of the one which Thenvunin must have already plundered, and she spares a moment of admiration for his apparent discretion. If they were going to stay here, it would be very useful. But as it stands her mind has been turning over the viable ways to reverse what has happened, and she thinks she has come upon the answer.

The estate’s eluvian is going to be strained to the point where the city’s engineers will have to dig a new entrance to it, and that will be conspicuous enough on its own.

Still, she will not put too much faith in her skills at getting them back to a precisely convenient location. She gathers up a few packs and fills them with enough supplies to manage a few days of travel, and then takes some extra in hand, along with a bottle of mead. Then she makes her way back past the dappled walls and through the winding corridors, to the bathroom once more.

There are voices.

“I have no idea,” Thenvunin is saying, quietly. And then, even more quietly: “For half a moment I thought you were dead.”

“No such luck. It seems our captor wants us alive, for now,” Uthvir replies.

There is a small, infantile sound of disapproval, at that.

“Uthvir…”

“Shh. Not now.”

“I am sorry. I did not know what else…”

“Shh.”

There is a sigh.

Mana’Din gives them a moment more, for politeness’ sake. Then she makes her steps loud enough to hear as she begins walking again.

Even so, by the time she makes her way around the partition once more, Thenvunin is holding Lavellan and hiding most of his face with his hair. Uthvir has situated themselves in front of their little family – they regard her with a neutral sort of defensiveness, that she is almost glad to see. It’s much easier to deal with than outright aggression, and it means they probably know they’re out-matched at the moment.

Not, she thinks, that she would care to fight.

“I brought food,” she says, extending the packet she’s carried up towards Uthvir for inspection. Fruit and nuts and berries, and a little cured meat greet their gaze. They sniff it, and narrow their eyes at it, but then at last hand it back to Thenvunin.

“I am not hungry,” Thenvunin says.

“Try and eat anyway,” Uthvir requests, not taking their eyes off of her. “I have feeling we are going somewhere, then?”

“I do apologize for the presumptions,” Mana’Din says. Thenvunin was, at least, given the opportunity to decline her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t precisely allow Uthvir the same, given the necessities of killing Andruil. “I should have afforded you more of an opportunity for refusal, but by the time you got back, things were already set into motion. Still, if you would prefer to stay, I can ferry you safely to the nearest Nameless encampment at the very least. Everyone witnessed my actions towards Andruil. Likely you would be punished for your failure to defend her, but hunting you down wouldn’t be a priority.”

Uthvir stares at her contemplatively.

In point of fact they  _really_  seem to look at her, now. Not too much different from the way Thenvunin had looked at her before. Their gaze even darts back towards Lavellan, who is quietly watching them speak from Thenvunin’s lap.

“And if we choose  _not_  to stay?” the hunter finally wonders, lifting their brows. “Am I to suppose you would take us to some other world?”

“Yes,” Mana’Din confirms, with a nod. “Not one wholly different from this, though. I have territory there.”

Uthvir’s gaze narrows.

“You are a leader,” they surmise.

“Yes.”

Lavellan startles, and lets out a tiny puff of breath. Thenvunin smooths a hand over the top of her head.

“So we would be required to take on your markings. To serve you, in this world where we would have very little to avail ourselves, and only a limited understanding of the politics at play,” Uthvir reasons, shifting so that the spike of their shoulder is situated between her gaze and Lavellan, and drawing her attention back onto them once more.

“I would not leave you ignorant,” she assures them. “In my world I am the daughter of Dirthamen. The lands I protect once belonged to Falon’Din, but he has been overthrown and locked into an eternal sleep. Most of my followers are comprised of what servants survived his depravities, and many from the slave camps that have been given into my care, and have chosen to take on my markings. There are, however, accommodations for those who choose  _not_  to take on my markings. Anyone who lives in my territory has as much protection as I can give them, regardless. If you come with me, you may choose to take on my markings or not. You may even choose to seek out the Andruil of that world, and rise up again through her own ranks. Perhaps you will be better situated, this time. Or you could go and join the Nameless there, if you prefer.”

Uthvir turns this over for a moment. So does Thenvunin, it seems, and he surprised her by being the next to speak.

“Or we could arrive and find that nothing is as you have claimed,” he declares.

“Nah,” Lavellan says.

Uthvir snorts.

Then let out a sigh.

“If we come, and if we serve you,” they say. “In what capacity would we be expected to serve?”

Mana’Din blinks, and considers.

“In whatever capacity suits you,” she reasons. “You are a hunter, yes? We do not have many of those, and we could use more to help increase food supplies in rural regions. If you would be willing to teach others, that would be useful. I have few elves who are experienced in administration and management. The Thenvunin of my world is, as I recall, a high-ranking servant of Mythal. A military leader. We have need for those, as well. You would be expected to follow my laws and to respect the other servants in my employ, but given your history, and certain gaps in my administrative needs, I would likely afford you a high rank.”

Uthvir shakes their head, slightly.

“Not ‘likely afford’,” they decide. “I want your word, that if we come with you, then we will both be granted high ranks.”

She considers it. She can’t blame them for wanting that, she supposes. Rank is security, and she’s probably not going to sell them on the standards of behaviour in her territory until she actually gets them there. Not that her laws are always obeyed, either. But Uthvir was high-ranking in their service of Andruil, and Thenvunin was in his service of Mythal, and even though she tends to be more wary than not of elves who made it far in the current systems, her younger self seems incredibly taken with them.

“I would reserve the right to demote you if you abused your authority,” she says.

Uthvir doesn’t look too happy about that, but after a moment they concede to it.

“I doubt we will be able to stop you from doing any such thing. Or breaking any number of promises,” they observe.

Which is true, from their perspective. She won’t censure them for being suspicious. It’s probably a miracle that they’re even listening to her at all.

“Why don’t you think it over?” she suggests. “We have some time, and I will have to make some preparations regardless.”

Uthvir nods.

With a nod back, she stands. She offers her younger self a reassuring smile, and Thenvunin, too, and then makes her way out of the little sanctuary to go and see to the eluvian. She hopes time isn’t passing along in her own world while all of this going on – though it probably is. Elalas is going to be unhappy, she was only supposed to be gone for a handful of minutes. At most.

Oh, well. Not much to be done for it.

She digs through further supplies in the estate, breaking into warded areas and feeling only the briefest twinge of guilt for robbing an alternate-universe version of her own father. Dirthamen will be fine, though, and is less likely than most to punish his servants for a robbery they couldn’t have hoped to prevent. And the mystery of how some unknown stranger could break through his various safeguards will likely keep him busy for some time.

She doesn’t start on the eluvian itself right away, though. Depending on what Uthvir and Thenvunin choose, they might need use of it again; and once she begins reorienting it, the process will be very difficult to reverse. So instead she sets about organizing what she knows she will need and suspects she  _might_  need to accomplish her goals. It really is quite remarkable, she thinks. Her mind turns the possibilities over and over.

To pierce through dimensions.

To find other places, like this one.

In this case she has stumbled, unprepared, upon one, and her other self is young and untested, and there is likely to most wisdom in withdrawing and reconsidering things.

But what else might be found out there?

Worlds like the one she lost, even? Chances to… what? Change  _their_  fates? To see the faces of long lost friends again? To offer rescue, or sanctuary, to more than just this one tiny little group?

What could she build with this new discovery? And would it be unwise of her to indulge that curiosity?

 _I need to know more,_  she decides. Nothing comes without a cost. Travelling between worlds seems dangerous enough, even without the possibilities that she likely can’t anticipate.

But still.

She turns them over for several hours. Until she hears the sound of footsteps, and turns to see her alternate self’s little family approaching.

They’ve cleaned up, and eaten, she hopes. Thenvunin’s stance looks a little more sure, and Uthvir’s aura rings with better confidence. They look at one another, and then down at their daughter, before the hunter strides a few steps closer to her.

“Upon consideration, we have decided to take our chances with you,” the hunter says.

Mana’Din smiles.

“I am glad to hear it.”

~

She’s right, in that her accuracy needs some work.

The eluvian ends up dropping the four of them into a forest about two days travel from Daran; when she’d been aiming to come out in another eluvian on the city’s road. The air cracks like shattering glass, and they fall a few feet into the undergrowth. Thenvunin lands on his back to keep from crushing Lavellan, and Uthvir manages to hit a tree branch, which neither of them are pleased about.

She can only hope, at first, that the forest is in the right world. But she recognizes the trail signs, and the distinctive red leaves of the trees, and when they head for Daran the city on the horizon looks as it should. Everything does, to her relief.

“We should change your markings,” she decides, before they go any further. “Unless you wish to seek out Andruil again. But people will remember that you were wearing her pattern, and that will make things awkward if you decide to take on mine.”

This inspires a brief, silent conference between Uthvir and Thenvunin; but after a few moments, they consent to the change without qualm. She takes their vallaslin from them, and replaces it with a spellwork illusion that should hold for a few days before faltering.

“Perhaps we should use different names, as well,” Thenvunin suggests, afterwards. “You said you met another version of myself, here. It might be suspicious to have too elves with similar names and descriptions to high-ranking elves in the service of others.”

“That is a good point,” Mana’Din concedes, glancing at Uthvir. “Though I have met all of Andruil’s high-ranking hunters, and never met you.”

They raise an eyebrow, and consider this.

“I do not exist in this world?”

“If you do, you did not achieve a high status,” she replies.

They wave a hand.

“Impossible,” they say. “I must not exist. Well. At least I will not have to worry over competing with myself.”

They don’t seem terribly unsettled by the prospect, anyway. And whether they really don’t, or if the Uthvir of this world is just living more quietly than they imagine, she suppose it evens out in the end. No one will think them particularly strange or extraordinary.

“That still leave Thenvunin, though,” she points out.

Thenvunin frowns, and looks down at Lavellan.

“Papa,” Lavellan acknowledges.

His frown eases, and then he moves and hands her towards Uthvir.

“Hold her for a moment,” he requests.

The hunter takes her without complaint, though they do look curious as to what Thenvunin is getting at. The former general leans down and pulls a sharp little knife out of the side of his boot. As the three of them watch, then, he gathers up his hair into a fist, and with shockingly little preamble he cuts it. The knife slices cleanly through, letting the pale strands fall down around his neck. Leaving the rest of it clutched in one of his fists.

He shakes that fist, and for a moment the air is filled with the acrid stench of burning hair. Blue flames swallow up the strands as Thenvunin lets go, and swiftly reduce them to ash. The wind carries it away, along with the scent; swift enough that it’s like those long locks had never been.

“Thenvunin…” Uthvir says, in a tone that lets her know that his hair had been important to him. The cut isn’t precisely neat or attractive, but she’s had new followers come in with worse.

“Thenerassan, if you please,” Thenvunin requests, before reaching back for his daughter.

His smile is a little strained, though.

Uthvir hands him back Lavellan, and then glances just briefly towards her, before reaching up and brushing a stray strand of cut hair away from the corner of ‘Thenerassan’s’ eye.

“You will still be Thenvunin to me,” they promise.

“An’ Papa,” Lavellan agrees. “You still beautiful.”

Thenvunin lets out a surprised laugh.

“A little hair is more than worth a fresh start,” he says, and glances towards her.

Mana’Din swallows, and nods back at him.

“Then let us try and make the most of it,” she agrees.


	2. Chapter 2

Their chambers, when they first begin to settle into Mana’Din’s service, in their strange new world, are unacceptable.

Thenvunin insists otherwise, but Uthvir sees it as a good opportunity to test some boundaries. They leave him with Lavellan, ignoring his protestations and only pausing in the face of his genuine fear – “Do no worry, Thenvunin, I know how to be cautious” they promise him, then – and set off. Back down winding corridors, past areas still undergoing construction, to where their new patron is discussing the matter of her absence with one of her other prominent servants.

Not anyone Uthvir recognizes. Thenvunin has noticed much the same thing – few of the people here are familiar to either of them. Even in the highest ranks; it seems Mana’Din was not exaggerating the lengths to which Falon’Din had been willing to sacrifice his followers.

Uthvir is not surprised.

The masked woman looks up at their approach, and her attendant trails off.

“The rooms,” Uthvir says. “They are not acceptable.”

The attendant – Elalas, they think her name is – frowns.

“They are like the rooms of any other elf of your station,” she says. “We are still rebuilding. Finery is not a priority, is not liable to be for some time.”

Uthvir raises their brows, and adopt their best ‘well, obviously’ expression.

“I am aware,” they say. “But we require a garden. It does not have to be large, but it will need enough space for at least one tree, and it must be private.”

“You  _require_  a private garden?” Elalas asks, skeptical.

Mana’Din, however, only nods in acknowledgement.

“There is a new wing that is still undergoing repairs. A set of rooms there have a small, attached garden, and terrace. You would have to put up with workers coming and going in the rest of the halls, but soundproofing the rooms well enough that they will not disturb your restfulness should only take a small amount of time. Would that suffice?”

Uthvir considers.

“I would like to see them, before I decide,” they say.

“Emalin can take you,” Mana’Din declares, and waves towards the open doorway of another room. A servant emerges, at her summons, and offers a polite bow to all three of them. He is soft-featured, fairly young, with a stocky build and an impressive excess of curls tumbling over his shoulders. Mana’Din quietly delivers her instructions to him, and he turns to Uthvir with a friendly smile.

“It would be my pleasure,” he asserts, on the topic of showing Uthvir to these potential new chambers. He seems exceedingly affable, happy to be of service as he gestures towards the door, and waits for them to walk through before venturing ahead to lead them to the relevant wing.

Uthvir immediately distrusts him.

Mana’Din’s ‘palace’ is barely qualified to be deemed as such. Uthvir does not recognize any of the layout of the place, which implies that the previous building had been uprooted even past its foundations. A change which, so far, they have found appreciable. The corridors are airy, the looming walls and dark pathways that they recall having been typical of Falon’Din’s designs replaced with arched doorways, and rounded windows, and walkways broad enough that passing servants need not scramble into cramped alcoves to avoid being trampled.

It is less a platform for some lordly figure to cast their shadow from, and more of a communal space. Something that would not be entirely misplaced in Arlathan, perhaps.

“So. My Lady says that you and your family were found near one of the remote outposts,” Emalin says. “That must have been a trial, surviving out there with a little babe.”

“Surviving under the rule of a sadist is always a trial, I imagine. No matter where it is accomplished,” Uthvir replies. Still, better Andruil than Falon’Din. If Mana’Din showed more shades of her uncle’s nature, they would never have followed her here. But as it is, it is only when they remind themselves of it that they can recall that, technically, they are in Falon’Din’s territories. Or what was once them, in this world.

Emalin nods.

“Lord Falon’Din was not in his right mind, towards the end,” the elf opines, which is tactful, if inaccurate. Uthvir has heard nothing of this world’s Falon’Din that would not be in keeping with the wholly aware and reasoned actions of the other.

Their escort continues to make strides towards small talk, with varying degrees of success, until they pass through a side hall and into what is clearly a wing of the palace that is still under construction. Uthvir keeps track of the route as they go, and finds themselves actually overall pleased with its situation – it is far enough removed from the other residential areas and housing wings that any impulse towards casually visiting would have to be weighed against the inconvenience of getting to the place. Only two sets of chambers seem to actually be in livable conditions, at the moment, and the other set of rooms is small and unlikely to entice a resident unless necessity demands it. Judging by the construction sites, most of the workers route to it from the outdoor courtyard, rather than the inner hall.

The wall are thick, and the doorway into the set of chambers is sturdy, and locks. There is a border around the interior which seems to be blank, and would, Uthvir decides, be an acceptable platform for spell-working. Wards, traps, alarms, and other such things could be added easily and discreetly.

The front entrance is a little dark, but the main sitting room that leads out to the garden is bright and airy, without feeling too exposed. They are pleased to find that the ceiling is not too high, and the floors are nicely finished, with veins of blue running through slate-coloured tile. The garden is more or less empty. But it is walled off, and there is enough space for a tree, and several flower beds, and a small pond or fountain, perhaps.

“The soil is good?” they wonder. They are no expert on it, but it looks dark and rich.

“Very good!” Emalin confirms. “I am something of a gardener in my spare time. If you would like, I would be pleased to help you set things up. An ornamental garden would grow nicely, of course, but some of us have taken to having vegetable plots and fruit trees, too. There is a small allotment of credits awarded to elves who help supply the dining halls.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow at him.

“Is there a food shortage?” they wonder.

Emalin shrugs.

“Not a dangerous one, no. But restructuring has meant that our production rates are not very high in most regions,” he explains. “I have heard tell you have some skill at hunting. That should make you rather popular in the villages, when your daughter is older. How big is the little one, anyway? Three? Four? My own little one just turned thirty. They grow up very quickly.”

Uthvir considers the garden for another moment, and then withdraws back into the rooms.

“She is three,” they confirm. “Nearly four, now.”

“Do you need toys?” Emalin wonders. “I know that our lady will have set you up with most things, but frivolities can be a little harder to come by these days. I have some things still from when my son was small enough to be interested in them. A few boxes worth. Not much, but they would be better off seeing use than just sitting in storage.”

Uthvir pauses.

Lavellan is very particular about her toys, and generally seems to prefer writing and drawing and running around outside to fluffy soft things, or similar. But it is true, they did not bring much for her when they came.

“What would you require in return?” they wonder.

Emalin blinks, and then waves.

“Nothing,” he asserts. “Well. If you could teach my son how to hold a bow or a spear, I would be grateful. An elf can never have too many skills, and I lack his interest in sport, as well as his talent for it. But I know you are busy settling in, and your own child is still very small, so I would make no demands on it.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“And the garden?” they wonder. “If you were to help with that, what sort of repayment would interest you? You mentioned it was a hobby. Not one of your duties, then.”

“Not a duty, no,” Emalin agrees. “But I am tasked with seeing to the overall well-being of the palace residents, so I would say it counts. Do not worry on that front. If our lady does not deem it a responsible use of my time, you and your partner seem to have impressed her enough that you could aware me a little credit for it.”

After a moment, Uthvir nods in acknowledgement, and some of their suspicion abates. That is an acceptable cost, and the reminder that Thenvunin also holds a high rank in this place, now, helps take the edge off of their concern over Emalin’s motives. The man is a servant, they remind themselves. He cannot order either of them into corners; for the moment that privilege would be reserved for Mana’Din, and possible some of her other high-ranking followers.

“Thank you. That is an interesting offer,” they decide.

Emaline nods back at them.

“No rush,” he says, and then begins showing them the rest of the interior rooms. There is space to expand, if necessary, he explains. But the existing chambers consist of four good-sized rooms, and a second floor with connects to a decent storage space, and a private bath that convinces them, in the end. The path contains a large, circular pool, but also a small waterfall off to the side, for rinsing and for enjoying as a visual feature, too.

“I can have the silencing wards up tonight, and you can move in tomorrow morning,” Emalin tells them.

“I will do the wards myself,” Uthvir decides. “We will move in tonight.”

That earns them a slight frown – but more contemplative than condemning, it seems.

“The chambers need furnishings. I will have to go and rummage some up in a hurry, in that case. I suppose we could take from the rooms you were first offered, but those are quite a ways away. Might be something closer I can find, at least temporarily. Does your little one still need a crib, or is she big enough for a child’s bed? I cannot recall what age my son was when he started using his, but I do believe it was around hers,” Emalin muses. “We still have his child’s bed, but his crib got shared out to the city.”

Uthvir… does not actually know. Though Lavellan has always seemed to do fine enough in beds; most of the time she had Thenvunin with her, however.

On the other hand, they do not suppose Thenvunin will sleep without her, their first few nights. The transition is too strange, and it will be easier to keep guard if both of them are in the same room.

“A bed should be fine,” they decide. If Thenvunin objects, they can always procure a crib again later.

Emalin nods.

“I should go and see to things, then,” he says, with surprisingly little offense over being denied the chance to put up the wards.

“You are not too put out, I hope?” Uthvir asks, anyway. They may not trust anyone here, but that is hardly a new situation – and it does not do to go making needless enemies.

Emalin only waves off their concern, though.

“Not in the least,” he promises.

Well. They suppose, on balance, that it would be wise to get into the good graces of a new set of high-ranking elves where the opportunity presented itself, too. It is easier to attribute Emalin’s affability to that rather than anything else, for the moment. So, on balance, they do, and send him off to go and find furnishings for the room while they go to retrieve Thenvunin and Lavellan.

Thenvunin is skeptical of the rooms, and their proximity to construction work, until he gets inside of them. Once his in the light of the sitting room, Uthvir can see him the approval on him, though. They let him and Lavellan look around, their daughter exploring with diligent care while Uthvir sets up the silencing wards. Carefully tailoring them so that they will let through sounds which they would be better off hearing – alarms, flames, large predatory animals, etc – and keep all sounds from within the chambers sealed.

When Emalin comes back with some more servants and several large pieces of furniture, Thenvunin withdraws, suddenly inspired to take Lavellan to the bath chamber and let her see the waterfall.

“Shy sort, is he?” Emalin wonders.

“No,” Uthvir says. “But he is quite wary, these days, of elves he does not know well.”

“Under the circumstances, that would be almost everyone,” the servant muses.

“That will change,” they point out. Which should be obvious – but they lace their response with a pointed undercurrent to end that line of inquiry, and, thankfully, Emalin takes the hint. He and his fellow workers set about arranging the furniture, and after several minutes have passed, Thenvunin emerges again. Uthvir is distracted, momentarily, as they hear his voice. Instructing some of the servants to move a bed to a different room, and making inquiries after a desk.

His tone sounds steady, and Uthvir lets out a soft breath.

_Well done,_  they think; knowing what it must have taken for Thenvunin to try.

They are examining the frame around the front entrance when Lavellan toddles up to them. She is dressed in one of the new pieces of clothing which they had been afforded, along with several supplies, upon arrival. A simple little yellow dress, far plainer than they know Thenvunin would like. Uthvir glances down as she pats at their leg.

“Goo’ job,” she says.

Uthvir smiles, reaches down to brush a hand over her head.

“You like the rooms?” they ask.

She nods.

“Papa have birds now?” she wonders.

“If he should like,” they reply. “We will need to do some work to earn them, first.”

Lavellan nods, again, and pats at them, again. Her approval, Uthvir has found, is surprisingly compelling. After a moment they scoop her up, and begin showing her the border they are examining, and explaining some of the alarms which they intend to put in place. They are not certain how well she follows them, but after a few minutes she asks about the garden door, and Uthvir agrees that they will have to add security there, too.

“The border is not thick enough to carve well, however. We will have to add some sort of wall fixture for it,” they reason.

“Trophy?” Lavellan suggests, making the shape for antlers.

Uthvir nods.

“Yes, that would work,” they agree. “Though likely your papa would prefer something more artful.”

By the time evening falls, the rooms are sparsely – but sufficiently – furnished. There are beds and there is seating, and Thenvunin has procured a pair of desks, and claimed the room closest to the garden for himself. The one next to it is Lavellan’s; Uthvir takes the third across the hall, and the fourth is left empty, for the time being. Emalin even procures them a suitable bench for the garden.

They head to the dining halls for dinner, though. Thenvunin holds Lavellan’s hand and she toddles alongside him, and they talk about what sort of plants they should grow, and whether or not they should have a pond, and if Lavellan likes ducks.

Lavallen seems to like anything that pleases her papa, at the moment.

Uthvir keeps mostly to themselves, taking note of the entrances and exits, and the servants who seem to frequent various parts of the palace. The dining hall itself lacks platforms or processions, though the table which Mana’Din sits at is somewhat larger than most of the others. They take their seats towards the end of it. Mana’Din greets them in a friendly fashion, but does not bid them come closer, and after a passing inquiry about their satisfaction with their chambers, leaves them be. Upon their arrival she had assured them that they would be given a few weeks to ‘adjust and recover’ and it seems she is true to her word.

Lavellan does try and slip down the table at one point, likely curious over all the new faces and dishes and features of the dining hall. But she stops when Thenvunin catches her hand, and climbs back onto the bench next to him without protest.

“Sorry,” she says, in fact.

“No, no, Papa is not mad,” Thenvunin tells her, softly. “We can explore tomorrow, alright? When we come for breakfast. It is just too late today.”

Lavellan nods, accepting that easily. Uthvir offers her an approving look of their own, before taking the time to assess yet more of the dining hall’s occupants. They can believe Mana’Din when she says that most of her followers come from various places, and not an abundance of means. There is not much coherence to the themes of her servants. No real theme to the aesthetics of her highest followers, except a general lack of the typical ostentatiousness, and no pointed lack or limitation to her lower-ranking followers, in turn. Uthvir sees bright colours on servants, and weapons on elves of a variety of stations, and jewellery as well.

They wonder what this says of the territory’s placement relative to others, then. Mana’Din does not command much fear, it seems. Nor a great abundance of love, for that matter. At least, not so far as they can tell. The leaders are vultures in most cases, preying upon one another in moments of weakness.

She was not kidding, they suppose, when she said she needed leaders. If nothing else, her people seem to lack a sense of shared identity. An image to rally around. When halls like these had belonged to Falon’Din, they recall, there had at least been the dubious distinction of serving the most unforgiving of the leaders. There had been those fanatics who were utterly dedicated to his greatness, that was true, but there had also been many operating under a principle of ‘if we can survive  _him,_  we can survive  _anything’._

Andruil’s hunters were not so different, in a way. Be the hunter, not the hunted. Be the strong one, who deserves to survive.

The new Patron of the Dead does not seem to offer much to rally around. Much to take pride in, or seize as consolation.

After the meal is done, and they have made the long walk back to their quarters, they share this opinion with Thenvunin. Lavellan is dozing against his shoulder, sleepy and sated from a meal full of dishes that were exceptionally to her liking.

“As I understand it, the domain has only recently come under Mana’Din’s purview,” Thenvunin muses. “A sense of identity that was not lifted directly from Falon’Din’s would take time to build. Especially with such a…  _variety_  of followers.”

Uthvir shrugs.

“I would think the trend should be obvious,” they say. “Sanctuary. Come into these lands and be freed from the darknesses of others. Death takes all, and so does its patron.”

Thenvunin sniffs.

“It would not be complimentary to equate service to a leader with death,” he counters.

“No?” Uthvir asks. “Sometimes a part of a person dies, to let a new path open up. Thenerassan.”

Thenvunin goes quiet, at that.

They make the rest of the walk back to their chambers in silence. Uthvir wonders if they have overstepped. Thenvunin’s aura is pensive, again. Thoughtful, and just a little bit grief-stricken, too. It unsettles Lavellan, before he gets it back under control again, and whispers comfort to her. Uthvir is the one who ends up taking her to her room, though, to try sleeping in her little framed bed. She settles down easily enough, then. They arrange a soft carpet by the side of the bed, just in case she should roll off. But they are not unduly worried.

Thenvunin is in the sitting room, when they emerge. Staring out into the dark, empty garden.

“I left my mother behind, you know,” he says, at length.

Uthvir frowns.

“I am sorry,” they offer.

“It is strange,” Thenvunin continues. “To think that she is still out there, in this world. But she is not  _my_  mother. Even though she is. And it is strange to think that she is back where we left her, too. I hope she is… I hope she will be alright.”

Uthvir does not know what consolations they could make, on that front. They have torn Thenvunin so thoroughly from his old life, now, that they have actually come to an entirely new world. It is a great cruelty and injustice that they have done him, they know.

And yet, their own future has never been filled with quite so many bright prospects before.

The light in the sitting room spills out over the windows to the garden. It suits Thenvunin’s countenance. The cut to his hair has been evened out, leaving it to flow around his head like a pale halo. Without the volume of it falling down his back, and with the simplistic clothing that is still more or less all that is available to him – at least, for now – it is impossible to disguise the signs of wear to him. Nor the remaining strength in his frame.

“Do you think you will go back into military service?” they wonder.

“…I have not decided yet,” Thenvunin admits. “I do not wish to travel where Lavellan cannot go, at least.”

Uthvir nods in acceptance.

After a moment, Thenvunin lets out a long breath, and runs a hand down the side of his head.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?” Uthvir wonders, wryly.

“…For the garden, of course,” Thenvunin says.

They glance back towards the barren patch of darkened soil, which does not, truly, seem like all that much at the moment. After a moment, they shrug.

“You do not have to thank me for such things,” they reply.

Thenvunin turns towards them, and for a moment, hesitates. The air around him wavers. Tinges of grief, and fear, and hope. Gratitude, which is wholly unmerited, under the circumstances. Just the faintest hint of  _wanting,_  though of what sort is difficult to discern. Uthvir takes a guess, though, and moves a bit closer. They trail their fingers down the side of Thenvunin’s arm.

He moves back.

“Uthvir…”

“It is alright,” Uthvir says. “I have some wards I should set up, still. We will need something to go on the wall by the garden door. If you come by anything suitable, keep it in mind.”

Thenvunin swallows, and nods. And then he sucks in a breath, and folds his arms, and stares at the wall.

“I suppose I will have to take on that task, or else we will end up with some severed animal head or a similar grotesquerie gracing the walls,” he asserts.

Uthvir smiles, just a little.


	3. Chapter 3

Thenvunin wants to feel safe.

It has only been a few months, in truth, since everything changed. But it feels like he has forgotten what it is to actually just… feel safe. To lie in his bed, to walk down a corridor, to sit in a room and not worry that someone will come in and attack him. Force him to do things, take his daughter away from him, hurl insults at him. Hurt him.

He misses feeling safe, and he wonders if he ever will again.

But days go by, and turn into weeks, and even though he knows things have obviously changed – even though no one accosts him – that  _sense_  stays. Every time someone new comes into a room, he stiffens. Every time someone he does not know well approaches, his guard goes up. He layers clothing more thoroughly over his skin than he ever had before, seeking to put a better barrier between himself and the rest of the world. When he finally gets a good opportunity to procure more suitable clothing for himself, he somehow ends up with three sets of armour and a new shield in the process, too.

Even though he has not taken up a military post.

Even though he has not taken up  _any_  post, yet, as references to ‘duties’ still leave an ashen taste in his mouth. Three weeks into this new life, he wakes up one morning and realizes all at once who he is becoming like. Who he is behaving like.

It strikes him in the quietest, earliest hours of the morning. Lavellan is sleeping soundly on his bed beside him, and he takes a moment to reassure himself that she is sound, before carefully scooping her up. He carries her into the nursery, and tucks her into her own little bed. Then he looks down at himself. His sleepwear is heavy enough to be somewhat uncomfortable in the warmth of their chambers. He has no great fondness for thick, coarse fabrics, and yet the weight of them is a reassurance he is having difficulties abandoning, now. Before, he would not have been permitted it. And before  _that,_  he would not have wanted it.

After a moment, he turns, and goes to check on Uthvir.

The hunter is in their own rooms. Clad in their usual fashion, stationed at their desk, writing away at something. They do not look like they have slept at all, really. Thenvunin supposes that they simply… haven’t.

He lingers by the doorway, and after a few seconds, they look up towards him.

“Thenvunin?” they ask. “Do you need something?”

Thenvunin hesitates. There is a question he wants to ask, but he does not think Uthvir can give him the answer he wants to hear. But he knows of no one else who  _could._  No one else who has been through it. Has survived it so well. He looks at the hunter, and he cannot help but wonder how. How did they endure it all? How did they do it so well that, prior to everything, they never would have guessed what they were being subjected to at Andruil’s hands?

“Do you think it will get easier?” he finally just asks them.

Uthvir pauses.

Thenvunin looks away from them, and towards the window in their room. A pleasantly arched little shape, more illusion than earnestness, though. The image of the sea beyond it is, obviously, not true to the estate’s landscape.

“Do you think, now that we are away from her…” he trails off, and wonders if he is even making any sense.

Uthvir’s chair creaks.

Thenvunin looks back towards them, as they stand and walk closer. Their gaze roves over him, a little, before settling onto his face.

“You are afraid it will not,” they surmise.

Is he that obvious?

Thenvunin lets out a breath, that catches when Uthvir moves closer. He stills, and all at once he feels the familiar rush of heat at their proximity; a rush which is followed, an instant later, but the gut-wrenching churn of his self-loathing. How can he want…? Is he really doomed to this, he wonders? Is it really his place, to just be used, to just be…

“What are you, Thenvunin?” Uthvir asks.

Thenvunin stills, and for one disjointed moment, almost wondering if they have somehow read his thoughts.

“What do you mean?” he asks, wondering if they will reach out and touch him. Not certain if he’s hoping they will, or that they won’t.

“What, in the most basic sense of things, are you?” Uthvir asks, and does not touch him.

“An elf?” Thenvunin offers.

“Just so,” Uthvir agrees. “You are an elf. Not an animal. Not a monument. Not even a spirit. Elves are built to be resilient, to withstand all the tides of change. What has happened has change you, but you can change again, too. You can change as many times as you need to, and yet, still be Thenvunin. That is written into the very nature of what you are.”

The hunter reaches up, then; but their fingers only brush the edges of his shorn hair. They are very calm, though. Thenvunin has noticed that. There has been a steadiness that has come into them, since they arrived here. Bit by bit, they have started to settle. He wonders at them, after having enduring so many years under Andruil. Thenvunin did not have to put up with nearly so much, for nearly so long. But he is struggling, still.

“I have… I have never been an exemplary elf,” he admits.

Uthvir’s expression softens.

“Thenvunin,” they say. “You are a  _glorious_  elf.”

Something about the way they say it robs him of his breath. They sound so certain of the statement, so utterly convinced. This is the Uthvir who spent years exchanging insults and quips and criticisms with him, calling him a ‘dead fish’ and yet, still coming back time and again. Who brought him a child, to try and save her. Who, he has thought, has felt some strange obligation towards him.

But they are looking at him only with admiration, now.

Thenvunin leans in towards them, drawn in by it, hungry for it. He lifts his hand and brushes their arm, and all at once they surge upwards and kiss him. Like a dam has broken. The steadying anchor of them is replaced by heat and longing and desire, as they draw him close, their tongue pressing between his lips and their hands gripping him tight. He gasps into the contact.

Uthvir breaks off the kiss, almost as soon as they have begun it. They press a softer one to the side of his mouth.

“Please,” they say, and Thenvunin feels a shock at the word. They whisper it so fervently. “Can I have you, Thenvunin?”

The question, admittedly, rushes directly south across his nerves. Want wars with disquiet, and a part of him that says he may as well agree, since he can hardly refuse. But he  _can_ refuse.

Can he not?

He wants… he wants…

“No,” he says, and the word surprises him, because inside it is  _yes._  “No. Not tonight.”

Uthvir pauses.

Then they press another, softer kiss to him, and take a step back. Thenvunin braces himself for their frustration, or disgust, or offense. For derision, and perhaps even anger. He braces himself for an argument that he is not even certain he wants to make, and for this choice to be stripped away from him.

“As you like,” the hunter says.

He blinks.

Uthvir smiles – not a smirk, even; a smile – and moves back towards their desk.

“It will be alright, Thenvunin,” the say. “It may take time. But I will do everything I can to make certain you have all that you need.”

“I am sorry. I did not come here to…” he begins, but they shake their head. And there really is no anger, he sees. There is sharpness, perhaps the faintest hint of amusement; more patience than he would expect, and an enduring calm.

“May I ask you again tomorrow?” Uthvir wonders.

He blinks.

“Ask…?”

They raises their eyebrows, and the heat already rushing through him turns scorching. He clears his throat, and straightens up. For some reason, that  _does_  make them smirk, then. As if they have found something to be particularly self-satisfied about.

“Whatever you should care to inquire about is at your own discretion, Uthvir,” he says. “I certainly will not presume to try and stop you from asking things. Even impertinent things. We are of equal station, after all.”

Uthvir’s smirk widens, a little.

“That we are,” they agree.


	4. Chapter 4

There is one way that Uthvir can confirm with certainty that they are in another world, and that comes to them the first night they sleep.

The first night they sleep is not, as it happens, the first night that they arrive. Of course not. They are in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by people with unknown habits and motivations, and even though things have largely been progressing well, Uthvir will not permit them to be caught off-guard. Nor taken advantage of. They spend most of their nights securing the chambers, and when that has been handled to their satisfaction, they set off to explore the estate grounds, and the city, and the surrounding wilderness.

It is, perhaps, too much.

They push too far. Fear does not like to let them sleep, even under normal circumstances. No matter what calm they can muster, under these ones, it is extreme in this endeavour. Any time Uthvir would close their eyes, it knocks them back towards wakefulness. After a few weeks of this, their muscles are aching, and their mind is losing its sharpness, and they cannot keep going on a few stolen naps and the occasional moment of stillness for much longer.

 _We need to sleep,_  they insist to themselves. They cannot run themselves into the ground and expect to gain from it, after all.

But Fear will not stop whispering.  _Are they safe? Are they secure? What if others come, in the night, while our guard is down? We are so tired, now. Would we even wake if we went to sleep?_

So at last Uthvir goes into Thenvunin’s chamber. Thenvunin himself is resting in the soft sea of his blankets, with Lavellan sprawled over the opposite pillow. Uthvir regards them for a moment, before falling into the chair nearest the bedroom door. The back is not terribly high. Their head ends up tilting against the wall, but it is enough to quiet Fear to the point where they can drag it into submission, and at last, they lean back, and fall asleep.

They are so tired, their mind goes where it mostly goes every night.

But this is not the Dreaming they left behind.

As they slip into it, no scarred landscape waits for them. No graveyard of spirits; no torn battlefield. Their awareness goes quiet, flitting into the fog of Fear’s wake, as they tread over verdant hills and crest a turn in the Dreaming, only to find themselves surrounded by thriving pillars of spirit life. Shimmering trees that reach with glimmering branches, thrumming with power and awareness, as smaller spirits drift among them with the abundance of jungle birds. Fear draws them, reflexively, into the shadows; but those are not plentiful.

This is Glory’s grave, but…

…But Glory must not be dead, they realize.

Fear surges.

_Glory is a great spirit. You destroyed it. It will know; it will see the abomination in us. It will want to destroy us in turn. We must go, lest it come to this place._

_Glory…_

Uthvir is torn. But in the Dreaming, Fear is stronger, and so they flee. Flying to other dreams; a shadow to slip in amongst the darker places, which even so, are not hard to find. There are still many more desolate spaces in this world. Battlefields and graves aplenty. Nightmares and ill-omens and panicked memories of violence, sacrifice, and pain.

But something follows them.

Flitting at the periphery of their awareness. A spirit. A curious pursuer, that latched onto them in the midst of that great, tangled sanctuary, and now manages to track them across the landscape of other dreams. Something bright with interest.

And recognition.

It corners Uthvir on the fringes of a desolate wellspring.

The spirit is small, but vibrant. Bronze and pink and purple. Its shape speaks of softness, but its eyes spark like flames. Fear wishes to slip away from it, with all haste. But it is not so terrified that Uthvir cannot muster themselves above it, because they  _know_  this spirit. They had thought that they would never see it again. This spirit that once held Glory, all through some of their darkest days. That would come in the wake of Falon’Din’s cruelties, in the aftermath of proclamations of love that always turned to pain and punishment, and offer what comfort it could.

“Desire,” they say.

The spirit moves closer.

Uthvir steps back, though, and it stops.

“What are you?” Desire wonders. “You have so much…”

Their heart twists.

“You should go,” they ask.

Those fiery eyes look at them, and that soft face tilts. A hand reaches for them; long nails coming just shy of their cheek, and they should move backwards – they should – but when the spirit tilts its wrist and brushes the backs of its knuckles against them, in the sweetest caress, all they can bring themselves to do is close their eyes.

“Oh,” the spirit whispers, and moves to embrace them.

Fear surges up, though; and it drags them back into wakefulness.

Uthvir’s gaze snaps open to pre-dawn light. Hours have passed, but not that many. Thenvunin and Lavellan are still sleeping soundly, and the chambers are quiet. Their neck is stiff and sore, but the rest, they know, has already done wonders for them. They ease themselves quietly out of the chair, and slip from the room, and head for the bath. That will help, too, they think. The scars on their back are tangled up with the knots of tension there, and so they run the waters hot, before stripping down and slipping in.

_Desire will tell Glory of us._

But why would it? There is nothing to connect Uthvir to Glory, in a world where they never served as the spirit’s prison. And they are difficult to trace from the Dreaming to the Waking, they know; they seem more spirit-ish to other spirits in the Dreaming, because of Fear.

And if the spirit would do as Uthvir keeps telling it to and  _reign itself in,_  then their likelihood of being found out will decrease even more. They dwell upon this as they bathe, letting the heat sink into them, and summoning soft eddies of magic to ease the pain in their back. The reasoning works, of course – it is Fear. Withdrawal is not beyond it, in the face of danger. The spirit’s presence relents, moment by moment, as it sinks more and more into the background of the Waking world. A dark weight in their shadow. A whisper in the back of their mind.

It has been a long time since their partner was so subdued.

Uthvir lets out a long breath, and finally, truly relaxes, for what might be the first time in almost a year.

The moment stretches on, and is only interrupted by the door to the bath opening. But even then, they find they are calm enough that all they do is press their back to the side of the pool, and watch as Thenvunin and Lavellan make their way in.

Lavellan blinks at them, and then toddles over to their side of the pool, as Thenvunin hesitates only a moment.

“Morning, Nanae,” Lavellan greets. “You sleep?”

Uthvir chuckles, and reaches up to brush her cheek.

“I slept,” they assure her. “Go let Papa help you out of your nightgown, before you get into the bath.”

Lavellan lets out a sigh, and makes a valiant effort to take her nightgown off herself, before Thenvunin tuts and comes and helps her with it. There are some tiny toddler grumblings about buttons, and some Thenvunin-ish fussing about the lack of bath toys, but Uthvir just changes the fountain running into the pool so that it will make bubbles and solves the matter. They help Lavellan into the shallow end, keeping their back still to the wall, as Thenvunin disrobes and slides in, too.

“I had wondered,” Thenvunin says, as he gently helps Lavellan wash her hair. Then he hesitates. But Uthvir only waits, as he settles his thoughts. It is strange, still, to see him with short hair. They find their eyes still tend to skip towards his neck; searching for where the rest of it may be hiding.

“I had wondered, if you might do me a favour,” Thenvunin finally manages, glancing at them.

“A particular favour, or is this more a question of my stance on favours in general?” Uthvir asks. They know the answer, of course. And they think there are very few things which Thenvunin might request, at this point, that they would deny him.

“I do it,” Lavellan says, softly, as Thenvunin starts to rinse her hair, and gently bats his hand away to duck under the water of her own accord. The conversation halts for a moment, until her little head pops back up.

Thenvunin lets out a breath.

“A particular favour,” he clarifies. “Mana’Din has given me leave to keep a few birds, once the garden is ready. I… the other version of myself, in this time, seems to breed songbirds, just as I did. I would… I would like birds from my old family lines, if possible. But obviously it might create some complications were I to approach my own self with such a request.”

“Ah,” Uthvir understands. “You want me to find the other you, and buy birds from him?”

“If you can,” Thenvunin confirms. “I am aware that such trades may be costly, and take a great deal of time, since they would be coming across borders. But…”

“I will do it,” Uthvir says, waving off his concerns. “As you said, it may take time, but it is hardly insurmountable. Once we have settled more, I will likely have to make a few trips to the city to procure some specialized hunting equipment anyway. Most of Falon’Din’s old traps and suchlike are built for spirits, not sustenance. A detour or two should not pose much of a problem.”

Thenvunin looks at them, and lets out a long breath.

“Thank you,” he says.

“It is no trouble,” Uthvir replies. “Have you spoken to Emalin lately about the garden?”

“Yes. He has found us a fruit tree sapling from a supplier in one of the villages. It should be here sometime today…”

They speak of idle things, as Uthvir breathes in the soft warmth of the bath, until the light in the chambers is bright and glowing. Lavellan climbs out at one point to help Thenvunin wash his hair, which is… admittedly, quite cute. She tries to tie it into tiny braids for him, but it is a little more advanced then her small, chubby fingers can manage. Uthvir helps, then, gliding over to work the longer strands that frame Thenvunin’s face into tight braids that trail away from his temples, and curl behind his ears.

“Nice,” Lavellan compliments, when it is done.

Uthvir grins, as Thenvunin looks slightly flustered by their combined affection.

“Very nice,” they agree, squeezing Thenvunin’s shoulder before they move back.

“Nanae’s turn!” Lavellan exclaims, though, halting them by reaching over and giving their hair a tug.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“I took my turn before the two of you got here,” they say. But Lavellan is insistent, and of course that means Thenvunin comes down immediately on her side. They pause as he reaches over, and brushes his own fingers gently across their hair. Their back is no longer to the side of the pool, now. Both of them have seen Uthvir’s scars at this point – with Andruil trending as she had been, there would have been little chance of hiding them, even if they had not shown them to Thenvunin when they realized what he would face. But even so, they feel the faintest trill of apprehension as Thenvunin’s hand settles at their neck.

“I getta brush,” Lavellan decides, and toddles over to where one is resting on a little bench beside the bath.  Uthvir takes the opportunity to move up against the side of the pool, and lets her set about carefully brushing their hair for them, as Thenvunin soaks by their side.

It is… not at all unpleasant, in the end.

They dress, and make their way to breakfast together. Thenvunin’s sapling comes in the morning, and Uthvir makes inquiries after several merchants, and continues familiarising themselves with the elves who serve Mana’Din. And with Mana’Din herself, of course. The strange woman with the strange connection to their daughter, who travels between worlds, and claims that their daughter has done the same. That she has memories of another life, and another time and place.

Uthvir… understands that, better than they can admit.

But in the end it is no more strange than anything else. Their daughter climbs into Mana’Din’s lap during lunch, and in the afternoon Uthvir gives Emalin’s son his first hunting lesson. The boy is very… reedy, they think. All narrow lines and a flexible nature that bends readily on the slightest hint of critique. Uthvir does not spare him from it; but the boy picks up information quickly enough. In the evening, Elalas comes with armloads of maps and a bestiary nearly as tall as Lavellan, and bids them familiarise themselves with what is known of the territory’s wilderness.

Uthvir knows much of the bestiary will be insufficient. Falon’Din had been obsessed with knowing the fullness of his resources down to every last detail, which was nigh-on impossible when one took into account the speed and frequency with which wild animals procreated and died. So most of his record keepers lied.

Mana’Din’s seem to have attempted a more accurate approach, however. The bestiary is filled with additional notes and amendments, and several pages which some infuriated ranger seems to have gone over with red ink. There are information tablets and, admittedly, the contents of several are quite intriguing. Mana’Din’s territory shares its most substantial borders with Dirthamen’s and Ghilan’nain’s, which means there are a fair few rogue varterrals wandering about, and of course whatever Ghilan’nain’s less responsible handlers care to dump over a convenient cliffside now and again.

The research takes up most of their evening. They let it burn through most of the night, too; but by morning they are starting to feel their fatigue again. A few hours of fitful dreaming in a chair can help, but they need a full night’s rest, they know. Then they can go for days again, if need be. Then they can make it through. But their bed offers only more of Fear’s whispers, and so once again, in the early hours of the morning, they make their way into Thenvunin’s room and sink into the chair by the door.

They are more prepared for the Dreaming, this time.

Or, possibly, Fear is.

They slide into darkened spaces where they will be difficult to track. Dry-running rivers that turn into Uthvir’s own dreams and recollections. Reaching hands and cramped rooms and ghosts. They dream of Falon’Din, because Falon’Din cannot find them in this world. He is gone from it, locked in his own slumber, and that makes it safer than dreaming of Andruil or Glory or Desire. Their mind turns over gold silk curtains, and a heavy, jewelled collar around their neck, and slick pools of blood that run up their calves.

They wake to a hand on their shoulder.

The room is dark. Their awareness snaps, and then recedes all at once as they realise who has touched them. Thenvunin is standing beside them, clad in his nightclothes; already retracting his touch, as moonlight spills into the room.

Uthvir sits up, wincing.

“Get up,” Thenvunin says, and prods them gently. “That chair is not the least bit fit to sleep in. Come here.”

His hand closes around their wrist, and they blink as he draws them over to his bed. Somehow any protests they might make die as Thenvunin pulls them to the covers. Lavellan sits up, but only so she can roll over to the middle of the mattress, and make a space for them. Uthvir sinks down next to her, as Thenvunin climbs back in at the other side, and that, it seems, is that. They lie awake, listening to the even currents of everyone’s breaths; and they fall asleep, and dream of calm seas.

When they wake in the morning, they are alone in the bed; wrapped up tightly in the blankets, the gentle murmur of Thenvunin and Lavellan’s voices not far off, as Lavellan quietly attempts to convince her papa that she does not need to wear a hat today.

They sit up, and are met only with the usual morning greetings; and after a moment of observation, they go and decide to fetch back breakfast, and the three of them take their meal in the garden. Lavellan eats and then goes to investigate the vegetable plots, as the two of them sit at the little table and chair set near the new sapling. Its trunk is nearly entirely green. It looks like a tenuous, overgrown vine to Uthvir.

“You are welcome to my bed,” Thenvunin says.

They pause, and glance at him.

“Why, Thenvunin…” they purr, and are amused when it makes his cheeks go pink, and his chin come up.

“You know what I mean!” Thenvunin snaps. “If it… I mean, if you would rather take Lavellan sometimes, then I understand. But it is a large bed, and the mattress is quite good. You were hardly a disruption.“

Uthvir considers making some quip. But in truth, the offer is touching. Thenvunin does not share his space so easily – for good reason – and neither does Uthvir, come to it. Yet this prospect obviously holds some appeal, just the same. And it is Thenvunin offering his space to Uthvir; not the other way around.

“Thank you,” they say, instead.

Thenvunin nods.

At which point, Lavellan wanders back and asks if they are going to see Mana’Din today, and the conversation changes directions. Uthvir finds themselves well-rested enough to make it through the day with little trouble at all, and last through the next two nights with only a few short naps. It is a relief, to move without feeling overly strained, and to think without Fear plucking away at their every impulse. They go over some field reports from remote regions with several of the city’s merchants, who know locals in the areas, and somehow Uthvir’s lessons to Emalin’s son seem to expand over the course of the second one to include a few new Dreaming-born elves and one of the younger kitchen servants.

Uthvir makes them pay in trade, but only takes simple things. A pear tart from the kitchen servant, some plant cuttings from one of the Dreaming-born; a few glass-bead hair clips from the other. They drag themselves back to their own earliest days of learning to hunt, and start showing them how to set and bait proper traps. Somehow they end up promising the group a trip outside of the city, if they do well enough, to put their skills to use.

When they get back, it takes them an uncommon length of time to find Thenvunin. Enough that they are beginning to worry, until Emalin directs them to the training fields; and then they find a most intriguing sight.

Thenvunin is sparring with Mana’Din.

The leader is clad in her mask, and a sleeveless tunic, equipped with a blade and shield. Thenvunin likewise has a wickedly curved sword of his own, but has foregone the use of a shield in favour of a rotating barrier. Several of the other practicing warriors and battlemages in the field have halted their activities to watch; Elalas, Uthvir sees, is seated upon a nearby bench, with Lavellan perched beside her. The advisor’s emotional field is pulled so tight, Uthvir finds themselves half expecting to a see an assassin suddenly descend from the nearest tree.

But there is no such assassin, and their attention is soon taken by the sight of Thenvunin holding a blade again. Thenvunin moving, graceful and precise, countering blows and making strikes. Long legs stretching, back muscles rippling. Boots cleaving through the practice field dirt, as striking Mana’Din seems to be reminiscent of hitting a stone wall, even when the blow is a good one.

There is little doubt who would win in a true contest, but this is clearly not a contest. It is practice, and Uthvir feels only a deep satisfaction at seeing it. They move closer, and settle onto the bench at Lavellan’s other side. She greets them with a tiny nod, before focusing her own attention back onto the fight.

Uthvir is surprised that Thenvunin would let her watch this, even as mundane as it is. But then, Mana’Din seems fairly adept at convincing him to do all manner of things.

Elalas does not seem overly capable, at the moment, of noticing much beyond the spar herself.

The match ends when Thenvunin at last over-reaches himself, and Mana’Din knocks him soundly to the ground. His sword clatters from his grasp, and he lets out a breath. His skin is covered in a thick sheen of sweat, but his eyes are bright, and there is just the faintest hint of a smile clinging to the corners of his mouth.

Mana’Din offers him a hand up.

“We need to work on your form,” she decides. “You are very strong and very graceful, but you have picked up some bad habits. Come back tomorrow, if you are interested.”

Thenvunin swallows, and ducks his head.

“Of course, my lady,” he agrees.

Uthvir is taken by a sudden, overwhelming desire to stride over, and push him back down to the ground, and devour him. Taking him while he is still panting with exertion; while his eyes are bright. Though of course, this is not the place for such things, and any actions of that sort would likely just alarm him and violate his trust, under the circumstances. So they resist the impulse, as Mana’Din leaves and Elalas gets up to go and follow her, and Lavellan watches after the two of them with her tiny brow furrowed.

Thenvunin turns, and then stalls as he sees Uthvir.

“How long have you been there for?” he demands.

“Long enough,” Uthvir replies, with a shrug. “You did well.”

“Yup!” Lavellan agrees, using their arm to climb up onto her feet, and then reach for Thenvunin until he smiles and bends down and receives her congratulatory kiss to his cheek.

“I suppose I cannot feel too discouraged at losing to a Leader of the People,” Thenvunin reasons. And in fact, he does look satisfied with himself.

This is the woman who killed Andruil, and Thenvunin stood in a field with her and held his own. Uthvir will not fault him for taking pride in that. If anything, it only makes them want him even more. It is a good thing that Lavellan is with them, they decide; or else the emptying practice field and the brightness of Thenvunin’s smile would be sorely taxing their restraint.

As it stands, they end up taking Lavellan as Thenvunin withdraws to go bathe and clean up. They hand him the hair clips they acquired before he does.

He gives them a questioning look.

They shrug.

“We will get you finer things, eventually. But in the meanwhile, they might keep your hair from your eyes,” they reason.

Thenvunin does not seem too put-off by their lack of fine jewels, at least.

He comes to dinner wearing them. And a scarf that Uthvir does not recognize, but that is flowing and sheer and trails all the way down to his waist. It is still far simpler than anything he would have been caught in prior to everything, but they are ridiculously pleased to see it just the same. Lavellan voices her own approval, which makes Thenvunin smile and drape part of the scarf over her head.

It is a cheerier dinner than most, and more of their dining companions than usual make strides to try and strike up a conversation with Thenvunin and Uthvir alike. The topic of the afternoon’s spar comes up frequently. By the time they retire from the dining hall, the mood is high, and there is colour in Thenvunin’s cheeks and a smile on his lips again.

He works in the garden while Uthvir goes through yet more paperwork from Elalas, until it is Lavellan’s bed time. Uthvir offers their daughter a kiss goodnight, and returns their tasks; listening absently to the sound of Thenvunin providing a bedtime story, until at last he tapers off.

It is past midnight when Uthvir contemplates the matter of retiring for the evening. They stretch, and consider Thenvunin’s offer; and after a few moments, they change into their lightest clothing, and make their way to his bedroom. Past the uncomfortable chair, and over to the bed, with its thick blankets and many cozy distortions.

It is only when they climb in, however, that they realize Lavellan is not there, too.

Thenvunin had tucked her in, and unlike most nights, they realize, they had not heard him go back for her later. They pause, because it is one thing to share a bed with a little child wedged between them; they are not quite certain that Thenvunin meant for his invitation to apply otherwise. And the connotations are very different, they know, as he turns towards them, and they think of that afternoon spar. Of the long stretch of his form, outline straining, sweating, whilst he lies right there, spread out beside them.

They remember, too, what it is like to have him. That strange battle of wills, with his undeniable desire and his infinitely amusing propriety; even the odd frustration, of trying to figure out how it could be that Uthvir might give him seemingly every attention he wanted, and still garner next to no response.

Thenvunin’s eyes open, in the dark.

He blinks at them.

“Should I go?” Uthvir wonders.

Thenvunin is still, beneath his blankets. Wavering and indecisive; but just as Uthvir decides to leave, one of his hands shifts beneath the sheets, and closes over their wrist.

“No,” he says.

He leans closer, across his pillow. Close enough that they can feel his breath. Close enough that it draws them in, and they turn fully towards him, and reach for the soft fabric of his nightclothes. They stop just shy of him, though. Barely a breath away from kissing.

Thenvunin licks his lips, and moves just the tiniest bit forward.

The feel of his kiss is soft perilously soft.

Then he leans back, with a long sigh. His grip on them eases; his hand slips away.

“Go to sleep, Uthvir,” he says.

They watch as he rolls over, and sets the broad expanse of his back towards them. They can scarcely believe it, though. However marginally… Thenvunin kissed them. Of his own accord.

_He would not, if he knew._

But he does not know, and never shall.

They drift off to sleep with that assurance set in their mind, and dream of candlelight, and glimmers of a spirit that is not dead, peering at them through soft sheets of rain.


	5. Chapter 5

When Lavellan is nine, most of Mana’Din’s territory goes through a very resilient heat wave.

In most territories, this would do little more than make foot travel between settlements a poor idea, or hunts a less pleasant venture, or otherwise only effect things that happened beyond the walls of cities or villages. But most of Mana’Din’s cities and villages do not have the provisions to keep the weather out entirely; so, while the heatwave doesn’t precisely  _bake_  anything, it does mean that a notable amount of effort has to go into making certain this stay cool.

Uthvir has spent the past three days trying not to melt in their armour; and as the sun crests on the fourth, they accept defeat. There is no reason they cannot more or less stay in today, and despite Fear’s apprehensions, there is little risk in being less than armoured in a place where they have never been attacked, and where only Thenvunin and Lavellan are liable to see them. 

If even Thenvunin, with his lingering reservations, can dress… comfortably, of late, then Uthvir can see no good reason to boil themselves another day.

They get up from the chair in their study, and close the window they had opened during the night. Now it will only begin to let cool air  _out,_  rather than circulating the stagnant heat away. They make for the dining hall to retrieve the earliest rounds of breakfast, and bring back a platter of refreshments, and set it out before returning to their chambers to strip their armour off. The removal of each layer feels like a blessed relief, even if Fear tingles across their exposed skin.

They strip themselves down to their pants, and the tight fabric of their undershirt, and then move to go and close the shutters on the sunward facing windows.

Lavellan gets up first, and blinks at them for a moment, before going to retrieve her morning hug. She’s chosen a minimum of clothing for herself, too; a long, loose tunic, and a simple pair of shorts. Uthvir helps her with her hair before Thenvunin gets up, and proceeds to spend a solid several minutes staring at the two of them.

At length he bids them a good morning, though, before retreating to go and dress. The outfit he selects is one of Uthvir’s favourites, in fact; a billowing white and purple affair, that lets the air pass through easily, and sometimes flows in such a way as to reveal the tantalising tops of Thenvunin’s thighs.

“Shall I do your hair today, Papa?” Lavellan asks, and of course, the offer is immediately accepted. The child is getting quite good at braids, and simpler stylings, and the both of them, Uthvir has noticed, tend to be calmer throughout the day if they start it out with such basic, simplistic acts of affection.

Not that they are much different, come to it.

Breakfast is a quiet and peaceable affair, and no one remarks much when Uthvir spends it without adorning their armour. Nor when they announce that they are going to spend most of the day doing tasks inside. Lavellan has lessons, and Thenvunin is off into the city to try and help organise efforts to get the major trading routes more comfortable, in the event that this heat does not pass. 

When they are gone, Uthvir is left to a quiet morning. Lavellan comes back for a break, and they feed Thenvunin’s birds together, before she must head off to her portraiture lessons. Thenvunin returns after lunch, as Uthvir is busy reviewing another compilation on the regional wildlife, and attempting to reconcile it with two other bestiaries that offer entirely contradictory records. They barely look up at his entrance, though Fear can feel his eyes on them.

After a few minutes, Thenvunin withdraws into his chambers; only to reemerge with a book of his own.

“May I sit with you?” he asks.

“Of course,” Uthvir agrees, and shifts slightly upwards on the cushions they had been lounging upon.

Still, most of their attention is reserved for trying to figure out how this region could possibly be entirely without apex predators, and yet supposedly nestled between several swaths of wilderness that are  _full_ of them. Either a spirit is behind this, or Falon’Din’s rangers were even lazier liars than they’d thought.

They flip back to one of the chapters on a neighbouring region’s very mobile predators, and pause as Thenvunin’s hand brushes over their shoulder.

A glance towards him reveals his gaze is fixed upon his own book, however.

Uthvir supposes they can allow for some tactile comfort, if needed - consciously or not - and turn back to their bestiary.  _Though omnivorous, the bands of apes are not solely opportunists, and will actively hunt prey in the hours of dawn and dusk, and in winter seasons will…_

Thenvunin’s thumb brushes over their collarbone.

Uthvir glances at him again, but he is, by all appearances, still reading.

_Though omnivorous, the band of apes…_

Thenvunin’s touch moves in a soft, steady rhythm, drawing over the thin fabric of their shirt and collarbones. Uthvir has to fight the urge to shift around, as their skin tingles a bit at the contact. They are very aware, at once, of the absence of the armour that would normally prevent such sensitivity.

They are not sure if they are lamenting its absence, or cheering over it, to be honest.

_Though omnivorous, the band of apes are not…_

_Though omnivorous, the band of apes are not solely opportunistic…_

They stare at the page, and force themselves to read their way through the entire paragraph; although their mind absorbs nothing of it, and after a few seconds, they realize that they do not even recall why they wanted to read this segment again to begin with. Something about… predators…?

They let out a particularly heavy breath, and Thenvunin’s hand stills.

He moves to pull it back, and they are not certain if he truly had not realized what he was doing, or if he is suddenly concerned that his touch is unwelcome; but before he can withdraw, they catch his fingers, and press a kiss to the back of his palm.

The sudden flare of an entirely different sort of heat in the air makes them think of that outfit he is wearing. And how very easy it would be to just… push back a few layers of fabric, and turn their head, and they could probably suck him off without even moving around too much. He is a steady presence at their back…

…And they had scarcely even noted it, they think.

They keep hold of his hand, as they tilt their head back and look up at him. A flare of nervousness breaks through the prevailing comfort of the moment. They offer him a smile, because they have learned that it helps; that when they smile, gently, he does not worry so much that they will try to act upon all of the impulses they have towards him.

Thenvunin shifts a little, and something in his own gaze goes astonishingly soft. They blink, as he leans down and presses a kiss to their forehead.

“You did not come to bed last night,” he says. “Did you sleep in your own?”

Uthvir almost laughs. They have not slept in their own bed for… years, now. It is little more than a decorative feature to their room, at this point. Even when Thenvunin had made his first solitary trip back to Arlathan since their new situation here, they had ended up sleeping in his bed with Lavellan until he returned, two days later.

The look on his face when he had found them had been… something.

“No,” they say. “I did not sleep last night.”

Thenvunin regards them a moment, contemplatively.

“Once upon a time, I would not have considered ever having your head just resting in my lap,” he says, after a while.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“As I recall, I rested my head in your lap a fair few times before all of this,” they say. “I mean, generally facing the opposite direction, but still.”

Thenvunin makes an irritated noise, to their mingled delight and surprise, and then huffs.

“That would  _hardly_  be considered ‘resting’,” he quips.

Uthvir’s smile most definitely turns itself into a smirk, then, and their delight grows, because Thenvunin is not afraid. Oh, they adore it when Thenvunin can quip about sex and not exhibit even the slightest trace of apprehension, or worry that they will misunderstand.

“Why thank you, Thenvunin,” they purr.

Thenvunin rolls his eyes, but that contemplative air does not leave him. After a few moments, he untangles his hand from theirs. Uthvir takes it as their cue to resume reading - or least make a passing attempt at it - but they are stalled when the backs of Thenvunin’s fingers brush against their cheek.

That is all he does, though. Just a light caress, before he turns back to his book.

Uthvir stares, uncomprehendingly, at the words on the page of the bestiary. They may as well be an intricate pattern on the train of some high-ranking elf’s gown for all the comprehensibility they have. The pages of Thenvunin’s own book flip by - swish, swish, swish - at regular intervals; and after a moment, Uthvir gives up pretence entirely, and just rests against him and listens to the sound. Breathes in that odd, unique ‘book’ scent, and feels the breeze from the gardens.

They are not quite certain when they fall asleep.

But they do remember waking up to find the light has shifted, and Thenvunin’s hand is resting atop their chest. Over their heartbeat. And he is looking down at them as if they are a thing he cannot quite believe. There is calm in the air, nevertheless. Calm and affection, and just the vaguest colour of want.

Uthvir has scarcely had a more gentle awakening.

“Did I fall asleep?” they ask.

“Mm,” Thenvunin confirms. His book is discarded onto the armrest beside him; the bestiary is a solid weight in Uthvir’s lap.

“My apologies,” they say.

“Those are not needed. This is, after all, one thing beloveds are for,” Thenvunin offers, with a smile.

Uthvir stares up at him.

“Is that so?” they ask, trying to bite back the rush of wonder and disbelief and fierce, burning affection they feel, in turn.

They are not certain they entirely succeed.

“That is so,” Thenvunin insists. “That is very, very so.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Beloved,” Uthvir says, and the word sinks, warm, straight through Thenvunin. For a moment it makes it impossible for him to think. It feels like a touch, almost. Like a hand slipping around him from behind, trailing down his chest and stomach…

He pauses, and swallows, hard, as he asks himself if he really  _heard_  that. Mana’Din’s sanctuary is still under construction, and with few other elves entrusted with access to the place, he and Uthvir and Lavellan have become its primary residents and overseers of the building sites. Lavellan, to his relief, does not object at all to having to camp out, for the time being – and Uthvir is surprisingly good at making certain regulations and standards are met, even if they do not know much about the particulars of construction.

Thenvunin knows a little more. Enough to hold informed conversations with the head builders and construction workers.

But it is evening, now, and he has been looking for Uthvir so that they can dine together with Lavellan. Their daughter is currently at the campsite, attending mathematics lessons from one of the workers who has volunteered to teach her. It is still difficult for Thenvunin to leave her in someone else’s care, at times. It reminds him too much of… of other precedents set, for what it used to mean when they were parted. So his pace is a bit swifter than usual, as he seeks out Uthvir.

And then he hears it.

He hears their voice, saying that word, and it just…

He wonders why they are saying it. The rest of the conversation escapes him, for a moment, as his mind goes blank. It is ridiculous, really. They are probably just being sardonic, or mocking, or any other number of things. They are not saying it  _to_  Thenvunin, and he must be in a fairly pathetic state of affairs by now if he can be so arrested by a simple, passing endearment that is not even explicitly – or implicitly – attached to him.

He shakes his head, and makes to follow the voices to their source; down one of the more completed passageways of the new building, towards the eluvian chamber.

“So that is how it is?” one of the workers is saying.

“Yes,” Uthvir replies, a little coolly. “That is how it is. I fear I am a jealous lover. It would be unwise to approach him, in truth.”

Thenvunin’s steps falter, again.

Uthvir has a lover?

When did that happen? Thenvunin would like to think he would have noticed, if they were paying any significant amount of attention to someone else. He thinks of the possibilities, but his mind draws only a blank. Has the hunter been sneaking out, on those nights when they cannot sleep? But who would they go to? Most of their clearest acquaintances are not men, with the possible exception of Emalin.

Though… perhaps it  _is_  Emalin.

Thenvunin feels a purely irrational pang at the thought. It is not as if… it has been  _years,_  and he still has not… cannot… he can hardly expect Uthvir to just  _abstain,_  while Thenvunin struggles with his own conflicting urges. There is no such agreement between the two of them, after all. Their only real, binding tie is the one they share through Lavellan. But it is not even, in truth, the thought that Uthvir might seek out Emalin for carnal acts. But if they are calling him their ‘lover’, their ‘ _beloved’_ …

“Lucky you, then. Thenerassan is a beauty,” the worker Uthvir is talking with says, and sends his mind into a fit of stuttering stops again.

_Thenerassan._

Lucky you.

Thenerassan  _is a beauty._

“Lucky me, indeed,” Uthvir replies, and Thenvunin is still standing in the hall, trying to parse the whole of what he has overheard when he hears footsteps on the ladder up from one of the lower levels, and after a few moments, the hunter climbs to the top.

They pause, and regard him a moment, and Thenvunin realizes he is still standing in the middle of the hall like a stunned deer.

“Is something the matter?” Uthvir asks, and finishes climbing up.

Thenvunin hesitates. He shifts in place, and swallows, before mustering himself.

“No,” he says. “But it is nearly time for the evening meal.”

“How time flies,” Uthvir muses, walking towards him. Their tone is casual. Their gaze, however, is assessing, and Thenvunin wonders if they know that he overheard. Probably, he thinks. With… one or two notable and recent exceptions, Uthvir is very difficult to sneak up on. It makes his mind race, caught between a set of warring suspicions, and somehow the prevailing whisper in the midst of it all is that Uthvir  _had_  called him…

“Were you talking about me?” he finally just asks.

The hunter raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” they admit, freely. After a second, they start heading back down the unfinished corridor. Thenvunin’s feet fall into step alongside theirs automatically.

“You… you called me…” he hesitates, as Uthvir glances over at him. Still with that questioning look, as if there should be nothing surprising in any of this. “…Things,” Thenvunin finishes. Floundering.

“Nothing offensive, I assure you,” Uthvir tells him. “Unless you were hoping to accept clumsy propositions from construction workers. In which case, I apologise. Shall I go back and tell your hamfisted would-be pursuer that you have an interest?”

Thenvunin’s gut churns, and his memory helpfully supplies a bevy of images of thick, unyielding hands grasping at him, and contrition immediately fills the air. Uthvir’s hand brushes his elbow, and they pause.

“I am sorry,” they say. “That was careless of me. I did not mean it like that.”

Thenvunin clears his throat.

“It is fine,” he says.

“No,” Uthvir insists. “It was badly done. You may forgive me, if you wish, but I will still apologise.”

They look up at him, gaze steady, and yet again Thenvunin finds himself marvelling at their equilibrium. It is brutally unfair, he thinks, that they made it through centuries of Andruil, and have somehow managed to find their footing so easily; and yet, he still flounders, and cannot seem to escape it. Even now, at a simple – if inappropriate – retort, his skin is crawling.

He shakes his head, and squares his shoulders; and tries to press it back.

“Do you always tell people we are lovers, then?” he wonders.

Both Uthvir’s brows go up.

“Naturally,” they assert. “We are. Unless that is an arrangement you wish to change?”

Thenvunin is caught wholly wrong-footed again, which is really  _very_  unfair, because he is trying his best to keep on steady ground but everything just continually throws him astray. If it is not the big things, like inter-dimensional travel, then it is the little ones, like Uthvir suddenly asserting that they are lovers. When they never have been, so far as Thenvunin knows; back when they had sex, it was certainly not an intimate bond. And since they have grown more… accustomed to one another, they… he has not been… 

“But we have not…” he protests, and trails off as his tongue twists around the words.

The hunter waits. When he cannot manage any further clarifications, they brush his shoulder again, and nudge him into resuming their walk.

“We have not…?” they prompt. “What? Had sex? Of course we have. We have had it several times, as I recall.”

Thenvunin swallows. Impertinent. His streak of irritation helps him soldier through.

“Yes, but not since…”

Uthvir glances at him, but only shrugs.

“Well we are certainly not having it  _right this moment,_  but I hardly see how that is relevant. Many lovers are not constantly and continuously engaged in the erotic act. It is not as if we are a pair of Lust spirits tangled in some sort of infinite loop. So far as I am concerned, it is just as I said. We are lovers, unless you find something objectionable in that claim. In which case, I will stop telling people as much,” the hunter reasons. “Though I will still, of course, be perfectly willing to chase off any unwelcome pursuers. I did promise you, did I not?”

_No one will ever touch you without your permission again._

Thenvunin frowns, as his heart speeds, and it is a force of effort to get a handle on his emotions. Which do not even themselves seem to know what they are doing.

“Did you call me beloved, as well?” he finally just blurts out.

It is Uthvir’s turn to falter, just slightly, then. There is a brief hitch to their steps, and widening to their eyes. For a moment Thenvunin is appalled at himself, because what if they  _hadn’t?_ What if they  _had_  been referring to someone else, and now he has asked them, and they will be forced to either lie and claim that they have been, or tell him that no, they have become taken with someone else?

What if they have become taken with someone else?

What if this person gives them enough that they no longer wish to pursue him, at all?

“Nevermind,” he asserts, shaking his head. “You do not have to tell me.”

“Would you object if I had?” Uthvir asks.

He stops again, and thinks of that warm feeling. That caressing endearment. What should he say? If he admits… but if he does  _not…_  but does he really….? And would they actually…? Or would it all just…

…Hurt?

He folds his arms across his chest, as Uthvir waits, and that helps, a little. Only a little. Like setting the flimsiest barrier up before his heart.

“I would not object,” he admits. His own voice sounds appallingly timid to his ears.

There is a pause.

Then Uthvir moves closer to him. Their steps light, and Thenvunin cannot bring himself to meet their stare until they reach out and gently grasp his jaw. Their gaze is intent and striking as ever, and their other hand comes to rest on his folded arms, as they coax him into looking at them.

“Beloved,” they say. “My beloved Thenvunin.”

His breath stops.

It is a thousand times more potent, like this. With their eyes fixed upon him, and the word sinking through him twice over. Stuttering his heartbeats and firing through his blood, nestling like honeyed warmth into his stomach. He holds his breath for a long enough moment that his lungs protest, and his chest aches but he is not certain if that is them, or the overwhelmed muscles of his heart.

His arms unfold, seemingly of their own accord; and before he knows it they have closed around Uthvir, and he is leaning in, and he cannot say if he kisses them first or if they rise up and seal it themselves. But his breaths are heavy when they break apart again, and the corners of his eyes itch and burn.

“Oh,” he says.

Uthvir smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

Uthvir does not know what to make of Elalas just yet, and does not expect to develop any sort of especial camaraderie with her.

But a trend soon becomes apparent; that when Thenvunin and Mana’Din are sparring, Uthvir will come to watch Thenvunin.

And Elalas, they are beginning to think, comes to watch Mana’Din.

They are not the only regular spectators to such events, of course. But most everyone else who takes an interest in these proceedings is trained in some form of combat themselves.

Uthvir is as well, of course. But so far as they have been able to discern, Elalas is not a fighter.She is a busy advisor, and prominent organizer and informant with questionable connections but useful insights, who dislikes violence and loud noises, and - they have surmised - finds the bright magical displays which sometimes occur in the training grounds to be disorienting and unpleasant.

And yet, she always watches Mana’Din fight.

And often watches Mana’Din practice.

Uthvir can only assume that there might be a similar trend to their motivations, as they watch Thenvunin spar with their illustrious leader. He is wearing a purple headband today, to keep his hair from his eyes, and has forgone the use of a shirt, as the day’s practice is primarily about movement. Uthvir approves of this practical choice. Thenvunin’s leggings are very tight, and the muscles of his back are clearly displayed; not even obscured by the usual waterfall of his hair.

Mana’Din is not wearing very much, either.

The practice is very methodical, though, and Uthvir finds themselves listening with one ear as Thenvunin’s form is gradually torn apart and very slowly rebuilt, piece by piece. Their gaze traces down the muscles of his back, to the tight light of his leggings, and the curve of his backside; the strong, straining outline of his calves.

Mana’Din sweeps his feet out from underneath him, and Thenvunin collapses onto his back; abdominal muscles straining as Uthvir lets out a tiny little sound of interest.

So does Elalas.

They glance awkwardly at one another.

From Uthvir’s other side, Lavellan lets out pained noise; they look down to see her face settled into her tiny hands.

“Papa is alright,” they assure her. 

“I know,” she says.

And she is not showing any signs of distress, really. So Uthvir satisfies themselves with giving her head a gentle pat, before turning their attention back towards the practice field.

Thenvunin leaps back onto his feet.

They watch his form twist as he does, and fully enjoy the view.

 

~

 

Attending numerous events, as servants of Mana'Din, is of course somewhat inevitable.

When the latest party is done, they steal a moment.

It is not actually planned. Thenvunin does not corner Uthvir, and Uthvir does not slink up upon Thenvunin. Mostly it is just that they are both dedicated enough in their duties, at this point, that they outlast most of the other revellers of the evening; Uthvir on the look-out for assassins, Thenvunin making and re-making connections with various visiting dignitaries and their entourages.

His other self is in amongst the contingent from Mythal. Uthvir notes that ‘Thenerassan’ manages to be quite sociable without ever approaching any of Mythal’s people before most of them have retired for the evening, however. He spends a great deal of time, instead, passive-aggressively trying to inform some of Sylaise’s attendants that their outfits are discordant with the aesthetic themes of the evening.

But by the time most everyone has gone, they are still about. Uthvir is doing a last-minute sweep of the balconies and Thenvunin steps out for what honestly seems like a quest for fresh air, and before they know it, the two of them are alone together.

They linger in silence, for a moment.

“The scrollwork on your armour,” Thenvunin says. “It is quite nice.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“I think that is the first complimentary thing I have heard you say about anyone’s attire all evening,” they assert.

Thenvunin sniffs.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “I complimented our lady quite sufficiently. And that merchant from Ghilan’nain’s province.”

“You mean the one you gestured towards and said ‘if only half of you could dress as well as that, you would at least blend in with your surroundings’ while you were talking to Sylaise’s people?” Uthvir asks, amused.

“Yes. That one,” Thenvunin confirms.

He is so unrepentant, so like himself, that they cannot resist reaching up and brushing an artful lock of hair away from the side of his face. He blinks at the contact, but does not stiffen. Does not pull away.

“I suppose it would be your right to criticise, as well-suited as this look is to you,” they murmur. 

Thenvunin swallows. But after a moment, he leans closer. One of his hands settles onto their shoulder. It is Uthvir’s turn to still, then, as the night air falls quiet around them, and they stand so close to him. To the warmth of him, contrasted by the breeze through the balcony. Sweet night air.

They venture a hand of their own to Thenvunin’s hip. Wordless, they lean upwards, and press their lips to his.

“Thenvunin,” they murmur.

His hands come more fully around their shoulders, and their own stray behind him as he all but falls into them. A kiss that seems a strange and equal parts sweetness and fire. They nip his lips and lick their way into his mouth, and press him closer, still, until he trembles and the first note of trepidation strikes the air.

Then they pull back.

Reaching up, they grasp his chin, and offer him one more - sweeter - kiss.

His grip on their shoulders tightens.

“You should retire for the evening,” Uthvir suggests. “Go check on Lavellan.”

“Are you not going to ask me?” Thenvunin wonders.

They pause.

There is a light in his eyes, and a faint tremble in this voice. Heat in the air, and want, and still, that fear. That fear they can read so well, that is written so deep, in bones that were broken and flesh that was torn. In words that, they know, can linger far longer than any wound.

“Not tonight,” they say.

Thenvunin sighs in equal parts relief and disappointment, that he cannot fully disguise.

Then they part, and move away.

 

~

 

“Stop,” Thenvunin says.

Uthvir halts.

They are tangled up in the sheets of Thenvunin’s bed, both of them still clad in their nightclothes. Uthvir is on top of Thenvunin, their mouth pressed against the side of his neck, and one of their legs pressed pointedly between his. Through the layers of fabric, they can feel his arousal flush against them. The interlude had begun with Uthvir had kissed Thenvunin, and Thenvunin had made a  _sound,_  and then…

Then they had gotten this far, and now Thenvunin has said ‘no’.

They pull back, sliding their hands away from him, and their leg, too.

“I am sorry,” they say. “I did not mean to…”

“No,” Thenvunin interrupts. “It is not… it is not  _you.”_

That seems as much as he can manage for it, but Uthvir does not need him to explain more, really. They know how it is. How it felt especially, in those days when they first attained their rank, and found that they could deny at least Andruil’s hunters, if not Andruil herself. How important it was, that there were nights when no one touched them. How difficult it had been, to navigate the landscape of their own desires, when they realized that they still wished for such contact - but on their own terms, where they could have it. Choose it.

Their flesh is hot and more riled than they expected, though. They let out a breath, and reach over, and brush their fingers over the back of Thenvunin’s hand.

“I will go,” they say. “Sleep well.”

Thenvunin’s emotions are a mixed well of impulses and contradictions, but he does not try to stop them, nor seem quite sure of what to say. They leave him to regain whatever equilibrium he needs, and withdraw; not to their own chambers, but to the bath. To the waterfall shower, as they strip off their layers and move themselves beneath the spray.

They will not touch him, when he does not welcome it. They will not. But they want him to welcome it, so badly. They cannot help but think of it, as they slide their fingers between their legs. How would they take him? So many possibilities. Perhaps it would be easier if they let him take them. They have considered it, on so many occasions. They consider it again, as they tease themselves with their own touch. Would he be angry, they wonder? Would he wish to express his pain through his urges, and be rough with them? 

They would let him, they think. But they would not like that so much as the notion that he would not be. That he might be gentle, instead, all kisses and caresses and soft, slow motions. Like Desire was with Glory, perhaps. They sink their fingers deeper, and press a hand against the wall to keep steady.

But Thenvunin, they think, is even more stymied by the prospect of taking. Taking required action, requires intent. Thenvunin wants to be had, and they very, very much want to have him. To sink down on him, or press into his warm, willing body. Their fingers slip away from themselves, and their shape changes as they think of it. They let themselves imagine him in a moment of rare uninhibited need, spread out before them, his skin flushed and their name upon his lips. They take themselves in hand, sliding their grip across their shaft as they think of it. Of his lips swollen with kisses, and his hair all in disarray, and his hands gripping the sheets as he tries - and fails - to swallow back cries of pleasure. His cock thick and full, bouncing against them as they thrust into him.

They move more rapidly, and the image changes to Thenvunin underneath the fall of the water with them. Pressed against the tiles, wet and slick and warm, the meat of his shoulder at their mouth as they have him. They would have him. Again, and again, and  _again._

 _“Thenvunin,”_  they choke out, as they come.

They spend a moment, lost in the rush of it, before leaning more fully against the wall beside them. Full awareness circles back in, and Fear makes itself know. Has been trying to make itself known for a few minutes, it seems, but not urgently enough to draw Uthvir away from their… activities.

They turn, and pause.

Thenvunin is standing in the doorway to the bath.

His cheeks are flushed, but when he meets their gaze, the colour in them increases almost impressively. Uthvir thinks they have seen Thenvunin  _orgasm_  with less red in his face. He is dressed in his nightclothes, and holding a wash cloth; and there is a conspicuous tent to the front of his crotch.

They think, for a moment, of stalking over and drawing him close. Of making that last fantasy a reality.

But…

 _Stop,_  he had said.

They finish rinsing off, and move out from underneath the spray.

“I was just finishing,” they say.

Thenvunin clears his throat.

“I noticed,” he tells them, a little wry; and it is a surprising enough quip that they grin, and wink, as they move to where their clothes are still lying in a small pile by the waterfall. They dress quickly, as Thenvunin moves into the room; and betrays some uncertainty in his aura.

As they pass him by, they offer him only a pat to the shoulder, however.

“Enjoy yourself,  _Thenvunin,”_  they purr.

A white hot flash of arousal burns through the air.

Almost enough to render their recent efforts futile, they think, as they force themselves to let him go, and instead walk away.

 

~

 

This is a good day.

The sun is shining, the songbirds are singing, Mana’Din is showing Lavellan how to make little tiny barriers in the dirt of the practice fields, and there are two shirtless Thenvunins beating one another senseless with sticks.

Uthvir shifts on the bench they have claimed for the purposes of spectating, and let their gaze wander over the two figures squaring off. Thenvunin is in gold patterned pants, with his long hair falling out of the ties meant to keep it back. ‘Thenerassan’ is in purple again, with a patterned belt and the blond wisps of his short hair sticking to the sweat on his brow.

Both of them are broad, and muscular.

Both of them are glistening.

Uthvir watches as their legs move, and their muscles strain. They are – unsurprisingly – equally matched. Though not quite precisely the same. Thenvunin is more rigid, whereas Thenerassan has acquired a better degree of fluidity from his practices with Mana’Din. He is a little more distracted, though, as every so often his gaze trails over to where Lavellan and Mana’Din are practicing, too. Uthvir thinks part of him would prefer to watch their daughter’s growing accomplishments than spar with himself, but for the most part, he is invested in the match.

Every time they clash, Uthvir gets to see at least one set of back muscles straining.

They shift on the bench again. Oh, it is a very good thing their daughter is in the field, because they are sorely tempted to join in. And they think that if they did, it would be very hard to resist the urge to capture both of these warriors. They could do it, they suspect. Two of him would be enough of a challenge to make it interesting, but if they really flexed their own skills, they are nearly certain they could have both men pinned to the ground before long.

Thenvunin skids back as Thenerassan gets in a good strike, and their practice staves  _crack,_ and the muscles in their arms strain.

Uthvir is supposed to be keeping track of points, they know.

They meant to.

Early on.

Somewhere along the way they have completely lost score, however.

Thenerassan gets distracted again and Thenvunin manages to knock him down, but he is back on his feet in a hurry, guard up, and in his retaliation he sends his other self sprawling. Uthvir watches as Thenvunin hits the dirt, and more of his hair works its way free of his ties. Thenerassan’s chest heaves, and he levels his staff at his fallen opponent, only to have it batted away. Thenvunin grasps him by the calf and drags him down, too, and then the staff sparring quickly devolves into a wrestling match.

A sweaty, shirtless wrestling match.

The two Thenvunins grappling with one another, tangled together as they reach and struggle. Thenerassan works his way around and, after a few uncertain moments of clinging and gripping, manages to pin his other self. Their legs are tangled up, and Uthvir is treated to an exceptional view of the tight pants spreading over Thenerassan’s backside, as he holds a struggling Thenvunin in place until at last the other man yields.

The two of them stand, then. Both breathing heavily, with dirt streaked across their knees and chests, and Thenvunin’s pants riding  _exceptionally_  low until he notices and draws them up a little.

“I win,” Thenerasssan declares.

Thenvunin frowns.

“We agreed to a point system,” he insists, which is true. They did. And Thenerassan doesn’t attempt to deny it, as they both turn towards Uthvir, then.

“So? Who won?” Thenvunin asks.

“Me,” Uthvir says. “I did.”


	8. Chapter 8

Uthvir does not know why it is  _this_  evening, in particular.

Thenvunin is beautifully dressed. But these days, Thenvunin is  _often_  beautifully dressed. The party atmosphere is light and cheerful. Lavellan is in Arlathan, seeing to some matters in Mana’Din’s estate, and the visiting contingent of Dirthamen’s people are fairly relaxed and breezy. The decorations are not overly elaborate; the wine flows readily.

Thenvunin is beautiful.

Uthvir cannot stop thinking about it.

The starlight seems to catch in his eyes, to cascade across the broad expanse of his shoulders, and nestle between the strands of his hair. He laughs, and he smiles, and makes jokes with some of Dirthamen’s people. Strange elves approach him, and he barely hesitates to respond to their comments and greetings. He does not shy away from their attention, does not treat every invitation as if it hangs behind the veiled threat of ‘or else’.

He does not need Uthvir anymore.

Thenvunin has become a better judge of character. He looks at them, and smiles, and they do not know how to let him go. How to survive being the one exception to his newfound skill. How to survive the possibility that some day, he may see deep enough to know the truth.

They did not realize, when all of this began, that there was a chance Thenvunin would one day be able to devastate them so utterly.

His laugh carries through the room.

One of Dirthamen’s people approaches him. Dances with him. Uthvir watches as they turn across the floor, and feels that new, unwelcome slide of unease behind their ribcage. Thenvunin’s dance partner is slight but strong; similar to their own build, and equally as eager, it seems, to take the lead. They say something and Thenvunin chuckles. Say something more, and his expression shifts. Contemplative, as their dance comes to a halt. As his partner makes a daring move, and slides up to whisper something in his ear.

Uthvir is moving without a thought.

But before they can get there, Thenvunin takes a step back. Eyebrows up, chin tilted as he scoffs.

“I would rather not, thank you,” he says. The line of his shoulders is stiff. But when the follower of Dirthamen tries to reach for him again, he catches their wrist, and swiftly turns them aside.

“Troubles?” Uthvir asks.

“No,” Thenvunin tells them, giving his unwanted admirer a push. To their credit, the high-ranking elf makes a swift and silent withdrawal. Disappearing back into the throngs of revelers, as Thenvunin turns to Uthvir and smiles.

“Are you free for a dance?” he asks.

Uthvir blinks.

“If you would like to,” they agree, and readily fall into step with him. “It is getting late. If you would prefer to withdraw for the evening, I am sure no one would remark upon it.”

“Perhaps, in a bit,” Thenvunin agrees; though he seems more contemplative than unsettled. Still, they keep an eye on him as they move. His aura is warm, and his steps are even. Graceful, as they trade off leads, and the music shifts and changes tone. Moonlight falls down through the opening in the ceiling dome. Lighting wisps and motes that trail around the movements of all the dancers gathered.

When they are done, Thenvunin rests his hands on their shoulders, as their own grip settles at his waist.

“I think I would like to retire for the evening,” he says.

Uthvir nods; almost surprised by the decision, given how well he has recovered from his brush with an unwanted overture. But they will not question his choice.

“I will take you back to our chambers,” they decide, instead.

It is something of a surprise when Thenvunin leans down, then, and in full view of the party, brushes a brief kiss to their lips.

“Thank you,” he says, and while they are still absorbing the moment, threads his arm through theirs.

But they suppose if he wishes the added reassurance of advertising their connection, then they will by no means deny him that. They walk with him through the halls, past several other retiring revelers, and check a few times to make certain he is not too badly intoxicated. But though his shoulders do loosen considerably after a few minutes, he does not seem to be. And they cannot recall him drinking extensively.

They were paying attention, too. Naturally.

When they get inside of their chambers, Thenvunin regards them for a moment. They close the door, and wait; wondering at this shift in his demeanor. His gaze roves across their dimly-lit chambers, and his chin tilts, before he looks back towards him. A sudden rush of heat to his aura, then, as he reaches for them. Uthvir’s eyebrows go up again, but they accept the second offer of a kiss.

And when Thenvunin’s hands reach for their belt, when he shifts downwards, they obligingly surge up; pressing their leg between his, cradling his head and resting their brows together. Looking him in the eye, wondering. Is this what he wants?

Them?

“Make love to me,” Thenvunin asks, in a voice near breathless.

Uthvir’s mind all but shuts off.

They swallow, feeling the rush of warmth. The surge of want, mingled arousal and affection. They pull him in, until he loses all hope of keeping his balance; catching him and drawing him close. The kiss they press to him is gentle. For all the thrumming lust in the air, it is the softness that wins, at first. They taste the delicate wine he has been drinking this evening. Thread their fingers through his hair, and scrape their gauntlet claws, just lightly, over the fabric on his back.

Thenvunin shivers.

His grip on their belt tightens, and he slides across their thigh; moving towards them, until Uthvir shifts their grip altogether, and lifts him up.

“My heart,” they whisper. “My dearest heart.”

Thenvunin wraps his arms tightly around their neck, burying his fingers into their hair, and presses his cheek to theirs, and sighs. As if some great weight has finally slid from his shoulders. Some painful thorn pulled from his flesh.

“I shall be sweet,” they promise him.

He chuckles.

“Just be yourself,” he asks.

Well.

They suppose they can do their best.

 

~

 

Vallaslin ceremonies in Mana’Din’s lands are a quiet affair.

They are separated from the usual coming-of-age celebrations, which follow afterwards. Like a balm, or a consolation in the wake of the blood writing ritual. Mana’Din asks Lavellan who she would care to have witness the ritual itself, and Lavellan allows for Uthvir and Thenvunin and a small group of others to be present. She is very somber, as she takes on the markings; and Mana’Din is very somber, in turn, as she delivers them.

“You look lovely,” Thenvunin assures their daughter, afterwards. The markings are faint, just one shade off from her skin tone, and she smiles and hugs him tight.

“Thank you, Papa,” she says. “For everything.”

Thenvunin gets a little teary, and Lavellan turns her attention to Uthvir, then. She reaches for them, and they go; folding her into an embrace of their own.

“I will still look after you,” they promise. They will never be free of it, they think. But where before that would have seemed a costly exchange, where it would necessitated great pain on their part, now it is just… free. Freely given. She is their daughter; they will look after her, whenever she needs them to.

“Me, too,” she says.

They think about telling her, then. The truth. The whole of it. What they are, because what they are does not deserve any great sacrifices from her. But Fear stills their tongue, and so they only hold her tighter, instead, before they finally let go.

The celebrations afterwards are much more cheerful. There is food and drink and festivity, Lavellan’s tutors and friends and friendly acquaintances all gathering in the halls of Mana’Din’s palace, speculating on the future, making offers of apprenticeships or recommendations here and there. That Lavellan has Mana’Din’s favour is not a great secret, and there are some who are eager to use her as a ladder towards higher esteem. But for the most part, Uthvir does not need to watch too closely for vipers in the celebrations.

When the day is done, though, Lavellan takes them both aside, and explains that she wishes to go with Mana’Din on an expedition through the World Eluvian.

“Absolutely not,” Thenvunin says, of course. “That is far too dangerous. You are only twenty-five! You  _just_  got your vallaslin!”

“Fifty-six,” Lavellan corrects.

“As if that makes such a difference!” her father counters.

Uthvir is quiet as they argue. Lavellan is grown, now, and with the rank discreetly afforded to her, is only subject to Mana’Din’s commands now. And if there is one thing she and Thenvunin have abundantly in common, it is a capacity to dig in their heels. Uthvir knows their daughter has felt stifled by the restrictions of her age and inexperience, and unfamiliarity with the world. They have known since she was in her teenage years, that the only thing that could stop her from racing out of the door as soon as her autonomy would allow it would be concern for her parents; and now they and Thenvunin are safely accounted for, and there is no reason for her to worry more than she likely always will.

They want her to be free.

They want her to be safe.

The argument drags on until Thenvunin is crying and Lavellan is agreeing to put it off for another month, and she looks at them beseechingly, and they nod at her in acknowledgement.

“Go get some rest,” they say. “We can talk about it more tomorrow, little heart. There is no need to decide everything all at once.”

That last they make as a reminder. That not every situation is a calamity on the edge of breaking over, and that never answer needs to be found in the same moment that the question is asked. Lavellan hugs her father and hugs them goodnight, is wavering with guilt until they frame her face, and rest their brow against hers.

“You did not do anything wrong,” they promise her.

“I am not trying to abandon you,” she replies, worried.

“We know,” they say.

When she has finally gone, then, they are left alone in the room with Thenvunin. Who is fraught, still. And trying not be. They give him a moment, before retrieving a handkerchief from one of the cabinets in his room, and giving it to him. He does not meet their gaze as he takes it; but he also does not shy away from their hand, as they settle it onto his shoulder.

At length, Thenvunin manages a long, shuddering breath, and worries the handkerchief between his hands.

“She is much too young,” he says. “Travelling between worlds is dangerous.”

“She has done it before,” Uthvir points out.

“Yes, but we were  _with_  her,” Thenvunin insists. “It was different!”

After a moment, they shrug.

“So. We will go with her again,” they suggest.

The gives Thenvunin pause.

He turns, still red-eyed but with a dry face, and blinks at them.

Uthvir smiles, just a little.

“Lavellan wishes to go back and make certain that the world hers died for does not fall to utter ruination. But she can hardly accomplish that alone. Mana’Din will go with her; why can we not go with her, too? And likely others will go along, too. That sort of expedition should not be lightly undertaken,” they reason. “Do you remember when we went that last time? And found your mother? Things turned out. They will again, if we are careful. We cannot keep her safely hidden away. We never could. But there is nothing to stop us from joining up and fighting the monsters  _with_  her.”

Thenvunin stares up at them in silence a moment more, as his hands still around his handkerchief. He is dressed in forest green, today. In fine clothes suitable for their celebrations, with a necklace of emerald leaves around his collar, and a vest that shows off his figure in an exemplary fashion. Uthvir scarcely notices it at the moment, though. They are more arrested by the sudden rush of emotions in the air between them.

“I love you,” Thenvunin says.

They freeze.

“…What?”

Thenvunin stands up, slowly.

“I love you,” he repeats, with an odd expression on his face. Like someone who has just divined the shape of a puzzle that has been plaguing them for ages. “You always try, so hard, to make things right. I go to pieces, and you just… you…”

“Thenvunin-” they interject, because if he is going to be self-deprecating after a statement like that, they are not certain that could stand it.

“I do not want to lose you,” he says, and they are taken aback again. Thenvunin’s expression twists, his feelings warring, and they think they should say something but it is also clear that he needs to say more. So they wait, instead, rooted to the spot as he untangles himself. “Lavellan is grown, now, and even if she still needs us both she does not need us both  _together_  anymore. We are as safe here as we could ever hope to be. There are many prospects, many places that either of us could go to. I would understand if you have had your fill of me. But I do not want to lose you.”

Uthvir hesitates.

They remember. Falon’Din’s hands around their neck, the world burning as he bid Glory love him. As Glory thought of Desire, with grim and fierce defiance; spoke the words to him, but meant them for another.  _I do not love you, and these words are not for you, and they never will be._ They remember Andruil, in a moment of indulgence. Gentle, as she healed their wounds, and ran a soothing hand down their cheek.

 _I love you,_  they had offered.

She had laughed.

_What you feel is not love. It is an echo of it, if it is anything. Do not insult me again with such comments._

She had been right, of course. The confused mess of hope and gratitude and fear they had felt for her had not been love. It had not compared to what Glory felt for Desire; but they had not been sure… they had not thought that they  _could_  feel it, as fully as they could  _remember_  feeling it.

They still do not know if what they feel is the same, is even remotely close, to what a real person supposedly does. If it matches the memory only because the memory has dimmed to something which a creature like themselves can comprehend.

But as much as they can love anything, they love their family.

They love Thenvunin.

 _He could have something better than us, though,_  Fear reminds them.  _He could have something real._

 _I would not stand in the way of that,_  they think. Thenvunin might find someone truly worthy of him, someday. He might keep their lesser love, their friendship and admiration and affection, even alongside such things. They may not be real, but they can be true. As true as any living heart. Like one of his ridiculous, devoted birds.

“I would not leave you,” they say.

They reach for him, but Thenvunin is already moving. His hands read on their shoulders, and they obligingly close their own around his waist.  The kiss comes easily. It is familiar territory, by now. So is the rush of want that slides through them at the contact; an ache, but not unpleasant, when it comes to it. Their mouths slide together and their breaths mingle. Thenvunin sighs as it breaks, and one his thumbs brushes against the side of their neck.

“You can have me,” he tells them.

His voice is barely more than a whisper.

Uthvir meets his gaze, and presses another kiss to him.

“I would not have you because you are afraid you will lose me otherwise,” they tell him. And they can feel it. Fear can. He is afraid they will go away, that they will leave him, that his peculiarities will prove too much, his failings too tiresome. That they will finally become too disgusted with all of this waiting and patience and denial, and cast him aside. “Beloved.”

It is so much easier to breathe the endearment than the phrase it alludes to.

A storm of conflicting emotions passes between them again. Thenvunin is so afraid, of so many things. Sometimes they wonder if that is what kept them coming back to him, time and again. If Fear is not just as deeply fascinated with him as they are.

But there is also something else. Hunger. Desire. A painful wanting that steals their breath as he sets it loose, and Fear whispers that Thenvunin is afraid, too, that they do not want him.

They tighten their grip on him, and kiss him again. Raking the sharp points of their teeth across his bottom lip until they draw a bead of blood, and their own lust bids them seal it into his mouth, electrifying as the sensation dances across their tongue and shoots through his nerves. Thenvunin’s hands curl on their shoulders and he lets out a small, beseeching sound against their mouth. Short and surprised, but more than enough to stoke their fires  _considerably._

It is a force of effort to stop. To think. To slow down.

They drag their lips to his neck.

“Thenvunin,” they say. “Do you want this, beloved? Do you really want it? Just for what it is?”

His throat bobs, and his weight falls into them more fully. The long lines of his body pressing against their own.

“Yes,” he manages, tremulously. “Please, Uthvir, just…  _please…”_

The growl that escapes them has the faintest echo, as they sweep him up and carry him into their chambers, before they start actually ravishing him in the sitting room, where their daughter could actually walk out and discover them. They force themselves calmer, though, as they stride into their chambers with Thenvunin in their arms.

His breaths are a little ragged, and they cannot tell if it is excitement or apprehension.

They are gentle, as they set him down on the bed.

“No matter what,” they say. “You tell me to stop, and I will stop.”

Thenvunin swallows.

“I know,” he replies.

“It does not matter if you have come and I have not. It does not matter if I am inside you, calling your name, or if you are deep within me as I press you into the sheets. It does not matter if my mouth is around you, or my tongue is in you, or my teeth are pressed to your thighs. If you tell me to stop, I will stop.”

The cloud of arousal between them is thick, and one of Thenvunin’s hands tightens in the sheets.

“Please,” he manages again.

Uthvir is capable of a good deal of restraint, when it comes to it.

But even they have their limits, and Thenvunin asking them to fuck him is enough to tax them in the extreme. They have to muster every reserve they have to keep from tearing into his clothes; to make themselves carefully unbutton his vest, and untie his belt, and peel back the layers with care rather than abandon. To pull off their own outer armour, too, until they are down to their lightest layers, and can touch him more freely.

By the time they get him naked, Thenvunin is fully erect; lying back on the sheets with an arm thrown across his eyes.

Uthvir reaches up, and gently pulls it down.

“What shall I do to you?” they ask, and run their hands carefully over the skin of his thighs.

His throat bobs, and his brows narrow in something amusingly close to irritation.

“Am I supposed to decide  _everything?”_  he asks, with a frustrated huff. It is remarkable, how much his bluster can relieve them.

They chuckle.

“If you want me to choose, that is also acceptable,” they say. “Just so long as you approve.”

“I am not actually made of glass,” Thenvunin insists.

He doesn’t seem to really believe his own protestation.

But he is not, of course. Or if he was, it has long since shattered into something else. Uthvir suspects there has always been iron underneath, regardless. It is not about what he can survive, in the end. It is about what he  _deserves._  

Which is ‘better’.

He deserves better, than to be used, and misused.

They lick their lips, after a moment, and bring their mouth down towards his arousal. Teasingly close, before they lower it to his hip, instead, and trace the narrow bones there with admiring kisses. They coax his legs further apart, and drag their mouth to the inside of his thigh. They can feel him bracing for some nip, or bite, but they offer him none as they only trace the barest tips of their teeth across his sensitive skin, before sucking a bruise into it instead.

They take their time, and Fear curls into the shadows of the room, watchful for any overt sign of itself in Thenvunin. It spikes a little, as they finally lean forward and run their tongue up the length of his shaft. But when they hum, pleased, it falls away into less conflicted arousal again. His flushed skin is warm against their lips as they press a kiss to him.

Then they pull back, and reach for him, and their nails run just gently across his skin before they fold their palm around him. Three strokes, and his hips buck up and his arm folds over his face again as he comes in their hand.

They feel a rush of satisfaction. Oh,  _Thenvunin._  Still so beautifully easy to set off, and it pleases them so much to see it that it that they are surprised at themselves..

It gives them a good opening to let him have a moment, though. They move over to a cabinet in the room to retrieve a jar of oil, as he breaths heavily; and when they return, they brush a hand carefully over his chest.

Uthvir waist until he moves his arm back enough that they can see his eyes, and the bright red skin at the tops of his cheeks.

“Alright?” they ask.

“Would you…” he starts, and then trails off. They give him another moment, before he clears his throat, and reaches for them. The gentle tug gives them some direction, though, and they move closer, sitting down on the bed beside him until he pulls at them again, and then they figure it out. They get their arms around him. They stroke his hair, and kiss him, and murmur endearments as he clutches them back.

Cuddly. He really is such a tactile soul.

They glance at the jar of oil, but let out an internal breath.

This is further than they’ve managed to get in more than twenty years.

For tonight, they think, it can be enough.

They flip themselves around so that Thenvunin is resting on their chest, and hold him there despite some halfhearted protestations on his part. Their hands trail down his back.

After a few moments, one of  _his_  hands makes its way to the waistband of their pants.

They glance at him.

“It is alright, if we are done with that for now,” they tell him.

He nods in acknowledgement.

But his touch still inches its way down, bit by bit. Near maddeningly slow, and they shiver a little as his touch works its way across sensitive skin, and then over it. As his hand closes on them, in turn.  Thenvunin’s grip slides up, and they let out a breath, and draw him in for another kiss. The air between them feels heated but also easy, unconflicted as Thenvunin simply touches them, and strokes them, and drags up all the nerves in them until they crest over in turn. Revelling in the feel of his hand around them.

Then he slides his palm back up to their waist, and kisses their shoulder as he pulls them closer.

“I love you,” he says.

Uthvir forgets how to breathe.

They tighten their grip on him, and run their fingers through his hair. And if they tremble, just a little, he does not seem to notice. Their throat is thick and closed and too heavy to speak with, so they settle for touch instead. Their thumb brushing his cheekbone, and their legs tangling with his, and their hand trailing its way down his back.

Thenvunin sighs.

When they can speak, they do not think of Falon’Din, or Andruil. They do not even think of Glory.

They think of him.

“I love you, too.”

 

~

 

Thenvunin’s bed is soft, and large. A veritable ocean of comfort, suffused with all the scents Uthvir has come to associate with him. And now, of course, with the unmistakable additions of their recent debauchery.

They had gone as sweetly as they knew how, with him. Savouring each moment. Each touch. Each kiss. As it happens, it seems, they know how to be quite sweet indeed; and Thenvunin had barely hesitated, in return. Had asked only that they disrobe. Such an impossible request to deny him, of all people, in the end.

And now Uthvir finds they are glad for it, as they lie atop him. Pressing kisses to his hand, until he takes their own, and lifts it to his lips. Their breath stills as he brings it to his mouth. His gaze turning downwards, almost bashfully. Bashful, after Uthvir has had him spread out like a banquet. So different from how it used to be, between them. Thenvunin’s stifled cries could only wrench at them, rather than confuse them. And his stuttering gasps of pleasure, his calls of their name, had shot through them with an adoration that made Fear quail.

“How courtly of you,” Uthvir quips. But their voice is soft, and husky, and no wryness comes through. Thenvunin’s gaze catches their own. His throat bobs, and he lifts his free hand to cup their cheek, Pulling them in to kiss their lips, instead.

“I love you,” he says.

Uthvir cannot speak. There is so much, in those words. So much that they want, and wish for. That they have betrayed, by allowing all of this to come to pass. That they covet, as they covet nothing else. Their throat closes, and they cannot entirely still the rush of emotion that he provokes in them.  _Oh, Thenvunin._  

“I am yours,” they promise, turning away to kiss the side of his neck, and hide their face from his sight. His arms close carefully around them.  _And you are mine,_  they want to say.  _It is an unequal trade, but you are mine. My love. My own._  But they do not voice those words. Thenvunin has had enough of being owned; and they wonder if that impulse in them is not an ugly thing. The shape of the base creature they are, at heart.

A way of loving they have learned from those who are worst at it, even for all the fullness of their feelings. To want to have him all to themselves, forevermore.

Thenvunin sighs, and a rush of affection sweeps over them.

“I am yours, too,” he promises.

Uthvir closes their eyes, and buries their nose behind his ear, and presses a kiss to the soft skin there. Their eyes burn, but they do not betray it. They hold him tight, and let out a long breath.

 _I am sorry,_  they think.  _And not sorry at all._


	9. Chapter 9

Uthvir moves so  _quickly._

It would be fairer of the fates, Thenvunin thinks, if Uthvir wasn’t faster  _and_  stronger. They are so much more compact than he is; by rights, he thinks, they should not have the advantage in every single category. Their strides are shorter, their muscles less conspicuous. This should, somehow, show in their sparring.

But of course, he knows better. Uthvir is quick, and Uthvir is strong, and every time they pin him they take another piece of his gear. And the one time he pins them in return, it only costs them their shoulder guards; which just seems to encourage them to get ever  _closer_ somehow. Less impeded, he supposes, by concern over the spikes. Thenvunin is down to his last few articles of clothing. The hunter moves, and Thenvunin finds his leg swept out from underneath him. His back hits the dust.

He looks up at Uthvir, where they are perched between his thighs, and swallows. The front of his pants feels uncomfortably tight.

“Caught you,” Uthvir says, slyly.

Thenvunin is suddenly very,  _very_  glad that they decided to do all this in the garden, and not the training yard. He swallows again, and his hips shift; Uthvir’s practice staff presses uncomfortably against his thigh, as they loom over him, and a heady note of arousal sweeps through the air between them. His mouth grows dry as he realizes that it is  _Uthvir’s._  As the hunter’s gaze sweeps down his torso, and after a few moments, they let his leg free and set their staff aside. Thenvunin’s own is lying, broken, a few steps away.

Uthvir slinks up his prone form. Thenvunin thinks of a few nights ago, when they had… when he had finally been able to…

His cheeks colour, and his pants are definitely,  _definitely_  much too tight as Uthvir’s crotch presses flush to his own, and they nuzzle at his jaw. His hands come up, then, and he rests them on the bared skin of their biceps. His own hard-won prize. The hunter’s armour feels cool where it presses against him.

Uthvir murmurs something that sounds vaguely beseeching, before moving down and licking a stripe across one of his nipples.

Thenvunin’s breath catches.

The hunter looks up at him, as his hips twist against them.

“Would you like to go inside?” they ask.

 _You? Certainly,_  he thinks, and then flushes straight to the tips of his toes at his own thought.

But then he makes himself consider the question, for a moment. Once, the thought of being ravished in a garden would have seemed simultaneously unacceptable and exciting. Something to protest even as his own impulses betrayed his better judgement.  But now, all he can think is that the open air feels nice, and the little circle of dirt they are lying in is not actually unpleasant; and if they leave right now to go somewhere else then Uthvir will have to stop touching him.

And he thinks he likes it. Being outdoors, for this. Not because of the reasons he once would have felt conflicted over, not because it seems so questionable and wild to fall prey to rampant lusts in a setting not meant for such things, but because it is  _open._  He is not trapped in some chamber with the door locked. Uthvir could pin him a thousand times, but if Thenvunin tells them to stop, he knows they will. 

Yet even so. Some irrational part of him is reassured by the space. The flowering fruit tree behind them; the rustle of birds in the little copse by the south garden wall. The scent of flowers. Not perfume; but real, splendid blossoms that he planted himself last year. His muscles are slightly strained from sparring, but it is a good, pleasant sort of feeling.

He lifts his hips up, rolling them against Uthvir and shivering at the delightful spark of pleasure the friction produces.

“I think we are fine right where we are,” he decides.

Uthvir chuckles, and the tips of their gauntlets trail down his sides, before settling at the waistband of his pants. They lean back, a little, and pull at them; drawing him more firmly against their lap. Thenvunin’s breath catches as they give another tug, and he hears fabric ripping.

“Uthvir! These are  _new,”_  he scolds, even as his arousal spikes.

“Then they will be easy to repair,” the hunter reasons, lifting an eyebrow. But they still pause, a moment. Checking, before they press their palm against the tent of his pants, and Thenvunin’s breath catches. 

Then they run a single claw, carefully, down the straining fabric. The sharp tip splits it open, and just ever-so-faintly runs across Thenvunin’s skin, as Uthvir’s free hand holds his hips in place. He watches as they expose him, with that odd mixture of intent care and unabashedly hunger, and his heart speeds.

“There are laces,” he feels compelled to point out.

Uthvir slices them open, too.

Thenvunin cannot fight back the amused snort that escapes him.

“This is faster,” the hunter insists.

“It is not. And these pants are  _new.”_

“They are also covered in dirt. If you liked them so much, you would not have worn them for this.”

Uthvir’s thumb rubs across his hip, and he shivers at the feel of the open air against his flushed erection.His skin brushes against the fabric of Uthvir’s belt, and he has to resist the urge to buck against them. They drag their palms up the muscles of his thighs.

He waits for them to take their gauntlets off. To run their warm palm across his length; drag softening nails across his stomach. But after a few moments, they seem intent on drawing things out. grinding their hips against him, barely brushing his straining flesh.

“Uthvir,” he breathes. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” they purr back, squeezing his hips.

His hands grip the dirt alongside him, and he huffs at them.

“ _Uthvir.”_

“If you wanted my hands on you, you should have gotten my gauntlets off,” they tease, and drag the pointed tips of their fingers down his torso again. Just hard enough to draw a few red marks, without breaking the skin.

Thenvunin makes a choked noise, and tightens his thighs around them waist. Smug, insufferable, utterly beautiful hunter. He waits until they are chuckling at him again before sucking in a breath, and surging upwards. He is certain he telegraphs the move, but Uthvir’s chuckles only increase as he thrusts his way upright. Using his weight to try and flip the two of them over; to pin Uthvir again.

It is rather like trying to flip a wall.

Mostly all it does is get him sitting in the hunter’s lap, with his arms around their shoulders, while they absolutely refuse to just give way. Their arms come around him and they hum, happily, nipping at the side of his neck.

“Well, hello,” they purr. One of their hands trails down to the tattered back of his pants, and a… somewhat embarrassing sound escapes him as Uthvir cups his backside and squeezes. Crushing him to them, as the heat scorches up his groin and his breath trembles. He squirms, and they bite down on the joint of his shoulder. Their tongue laves at the mark, and he feels the sensation of it slide across his skin. Their hips rock, just gently, against him; moving the soft fabric of their belt across his cock.

They’ll use their tongue, then, he thinks. The sensation of their mouth on him. They can move it, he knows. Kiss him in one place and make him feel it elsewhere. The sensation of their tongue trails down his chest, and over the top of his hip, as their left hand traces idle, sharp little patterns across the back of his shoulder. Their mouth an impossible warm point against the base of his neck.

Thenvunin trails a hand up the back of their neck, and buries it into the soft strands of their hair. Their mouth carries on meandering everything except the places he most wants to feel it, and he feels a rush of mingled heat and annoyance as he realizes they are going to make him come in their lap with neither hand nor mouth on him.

“You… you…” he breathes. “ _Uthvir_.”

Somehow that comes out a little more beseeching than he intended.

But it seems to have an effect, because Uthvir growls and finally,  _finally,_  he feels their tongue scorch across him and he calls for them again, as he comes. A white sea of sparks firing in his flesh. Their hips rocking gently against him, their mouth worrying over the mark they made before shifting over to suck a bruise next to it.

His skin tingles, and he trembles, as his breath rasps in his ears and he realizes that Uthvir’s grip has slackened, somewhat.

He feels their brief flash of surprise in the air as he presses forward, all at once, and tips them over onto their back.

Thenvunin grins as they hit the dirt, and Uthvir catches his weight, and he presses them down beneath him. Pinning them, as he sucks in another wavering breath, and presses his lips to their temple.

“Caught you,” he sighs.

 

~

 

Uthvir would accuse Thenvunin of sweet-talking in order to get them into this position, but in reality, all Thenvunin actually says is ‘please’, and somehow Uthvir finds themselves utterly without recourse.

They let out a breath, and lay back down on the bed, and brace themselves as Thenvunin settles his first ginger touch across their spine. It is early morning, and Uthvir’s shirt is still on; the loose fabric acting as a barrier between the warmth of Thenvunin’s fingers, and the general numb ache of their scars.

They had woken with a wince, and Thenvunin had frowned, and gone ‘your back?’, and Uthvir - fool that they were - had not even thought to lie before simply nodding.

And now Thenvunin’s hands are on their spine.

He is very light in his touch, at first. Keeping it over their shirt as he maps the places between their scars, and starts rubbing his thumbs in soothing circles across them. The first knot he finds merits a firmer press from him, and another wince from Uthvir.

They start to roll over, ready to remind Thenvunin that healing spells are a thing, and one of those and a warm bath will see them more than functional. But they still when Thenvunin leans forward, and presses his lips to the back of their ear.

“Give me a moment,” he says.

Uthvir’s ear tingles.

They let out a sigh, and slump more fully back onto their stomach; and listen as Thenvunin goes rooting through one of the chest of drawers in his room, before returning with a rose-scented oil and what looks to be a heating stone. Uthvir blinks at it a moment. They did not even know he  _had_  a heating stone.

“Have you been having muscle pain?” they wonder.

“No,” Thenvunin says. “You have.”

They turn their gaze towards him, and raise an eyebrow, before he settles behind them again.

“Are you implying you got that just for me?” they drawl, exaggerated and slightly-sarcastic emotion in their tone.

“I did,” Thenvunin confirms, and the blatant admission brings them up short.

“…Oh,” they say.

Thenvunin’s hands are warm - unsurprisingly, considering the stone - as he gently lifts up the bottom of their shirt. He pauses. But when they do not object, he pushes it up all the way. He seizes his advantage quickly, they note; liberally coating their back in oil, broad hands moving in long strokes, until the skin around their scars no longer pulls so tightly. And the press of his fingers against the knots in their back goes more easily.

Then he settles the warming stone against their lower back.

Uthvir almost lets out a breath of relief. Andruil had sometimes used heat to…

Well.

They do not like having warm, dry things close to their shoulders, anyway.

Thenvunin’s hands are warm, but they are also very slick as he begins to press against the muscles higher up their back. Uthvir feels a mingled rush of reflexive unease at having his attention there, and a rush of aching pleasure at having his touch work over their twisted knots. He moves methodically, finding one problem spot and working at it until it untangles enough for him to move to another. Uthvir’s unease, and Fear’s plucking trepidation, cannot really compare to the sheer  _relief_  of it. It is much better than their usual methods, and they might have suspected it would be, but the magnitude of it is… almost humbling.

Thenvunin moves the warming stone a little, but never presses it too high, or too close to their scars.

That do not know how he figured out to take with it. But asking him is somewhat far from their mind as his thumbs find a spot just beneath their shoulder blades, and they groan at the jolt of pleasure his touch elicits.

His hands stall.

Uthvir almost looks back at him. But then he makes the same motion again, and they sigh instead, trying to let themselves go as boneless as they can.

“Thenvunin,” they purr.

Thenvunin makes a strained little sound of his own, and they chuckle.

“Do  _not_  start making obscene comments,” their delightful lover insists, without an ounce of real heat.

“For the sake of clarity,” Uthvir replies, their voice low and rumbling entirely of its own accord. “What would count as obscene comments? Because I believe a certain degree of moaning and sighing are considered signs of success in this venture.”

Thenvunin’s thumbs find that knot again, and they provide him with an encore demonstration.

He clears his throat.

“That is acceptable,” he says. “And is, of course, not  _commentary.”_

“And what about your name?” Uthvir wonders. “Can I not call for you? Or would that be ‘obscene’?”

Thenvunin shifts on the bed beside them, and clears his throat. He takes a solid minute to reply.

“I suppose that is alright. As long as no further comments are offered,” he allows. “Unless I am hurting you. Please tell me, in that case.”

Their treacherous, lowly, shrivelled little heart gives an inconvenient twist at that request.

“Of course,” they agree.

And they restrict themselves to a few moans and sighs as it is. In part out of mercy, and in part because it really does feel… difficult to articulate. Part of them wants to end this at once, and part of them wants it to never stop. They are sure the former aspect will win out eventually. But they are surprised at themselves for managing this long; and it hardly seems like a poor idea to see how much longer they  _can_  let themselves enjoy this.

But after a while, Thenvunin ventures a little closer to their neck, and they feel the pleasure of it rush all the way through them.

“Oh,  _Thenvunin,”_  they moan. “Yes.”

Thenvunin’s hands stall again, and he shifts around some more.

“Uthvir!” he reprimands.

“What?” they ask. “I was only expressing approval.”

“Well - try and be less - just - no commentary!” Thenvunin huffs, before repeating his motion over again.

“Ah. Thenvunin,” Uthvir obligingly limits themselves to. “Thenvunin.”

They cannot actually see him, but they can almost  _feel_  the heat radiating from his blush.

“You are impossible,” he mutters.

His hands do not stop, though. And after a while Uthvir finds themselves lulling away from their teasing into a kind of gentle torpor, caught between the limbo of extreme comfort and discomfort, soothed by the sounds of Thenvunin’s voice, and the gentle warmth of his palms.

The stalemate breaks when Thenvunin leans forward and presses a kiss to the back of their neck.

At last Uthvir rolls over, then, finds themselves looking up at Thenvunin; dishevelled from sleep, hair all in disarray, shirtless and flushed and oh-so lovely. They reach up for his face, and draw him down into a kiss. Trailing their fingers into his hair, as he all but melts into it.

“Thank you,” they murmur.

The heating stone is wedged under their backside.

They can give it a moment, though, before they have to move again. Thenvunin’s lips are still close by, so they steal a few more kisses, first.

“I do not mind doing that,” he tells them.

They offer him a smile.

“I will keep that in mind.”

 

~

 

Thenvunin’s skin care routine changes dramatically in Mana’Din’s lands.

Supplies in this lands are dramatically different, in many ways, from those in the rest of Elvhenan. Or perhaps the difference is inherent to the change in dimensions, though he is not entirely certain how it could be. Still, many of the oils, creams, and lotions which he had even under Andruil’s service are little more than a pipe dream here.

Which is not to say that there is  _nothing,_  of course, but the products are very different.

Overall, he does not mind the change. On some level, in fact, it is almost a relief, to know that there is less chance he will smell a perfume or hair cream or bath oil that will spark the wrong thought. Scent is intrinsically tied to memory, after all, and skincare products can… change, in their associations, when one has been forced to smell them during… when, when unpleasantries are involved.

Uthvir brings him a cream to help block out the sun in less weather-insulted parts of the territory. It smells slightly more acrid than he would like, but the scent tends to wear off quickly, and it works to keep the sun from burning his cheeks.

But there is an inadvertent side-effect.

Thenvunin spends a weekend out with Lavellan, going to visit Mana’Din’s halla. She has two, a breeding pair that she is still endeavouring to get permission to breed, and they are kept safely in a sanctuary in one of the more rural parts of the territory. They both spend a lot of time out of doors, with Lavellan feeding them and practising riding them, while Thenvunin worries over her falling off of them. But she never does, even though she needs his help getting up onto them, and the halla keep trying to eat his shirt.

“It is because it is yellow,” his tiny daughter informs him, sagely. “They like a kind of yellow flower that is a good treat for them, and you are wearing the same shade. If you want them to stop you should just take off your shirt, Papa, and stow it in the pack. No one is here to see.”

He checks, and checks again, but she is right. There is no one here to see. So after a few minutes he does as she suggests, and takes off his shirt. And eventually this leads to them passing an afternoon out in the warm sunlight, lying in the grass and napping as Thenvunin becomes more and more convinced that these halla, at least, are not liable to step on either of them.

Uthvir comes and gets them, as the sun is just beginning to go down. Thenvunin wakes up to a sense of quiet awe, and opens his eyes to see the hunter looking down at them both.

He smiles at them.

“Dinner time?” he guesses.

Uthvir nods, and gently scoops up their still-sleeping daughter as Thenvunin pulls his shirt back on, and lets out a long breath. He feels more rested, more peaceful and unafraid, than he can recall feeling for a long while.

By the end of the weekend, he has broken out into a sea of freckles.

They are not dark. But though the cream prevents burns, it does not seem to dissuade  _this_  from happening, as every part of him that spends any great length of time in the sun now seems inclined to break out into unruly spots. Lavellan compliments him on them with such enthusiasm that he cannot even bring himself to resent it.

“You have gotten even  _more_  beautiful, Papa!” she commends. “The sun kissed you!”

He blinks at her choice of phrasing, but smiles, and thinks of lying in a summer field and feeling safe.

Even if they make him less attractive to everyone else… well. He can live with that, he believes. Mana’Din does not keep him around for his looks, anyway. Though he does find himself staring in the mirror again, wondering if he should cover them up for meetings or formal events. Provided they linger, anyway. He suspects that they will no longer be an issue once proper weather-proofing has been finished on more settlements, and the summer heat has passed, and he has less exposure to the sun.

Thenvunin is caught in the act of inspecting himself by Uthvir, one morning, while Lavellan is busily checking on the bird feeders in the garden.

He pauses, awash in self-consciousness at not only being caught, but in the midst of his own conflicting thoughts over the change. The sight of the hunter in the mirror fills him with an ill-defined apprehension. Pristine skin is best. In Dreaming-born it is said to represent a lack of character flaws, since the only way to incur ‘blemishes’ on constructed bodies is through conflicting impulses or even a lack of self-control. And in Waking-born it is considered… unflattering, if less telling.

“This is a problem,” Uthvir tells him, and his blood runs cold.

He swallows.

“I could find a concealment cream, I think. I doubt I could shift them away,” Thenvunin murmurs.

“You could,” the hunter agrees. “But I would still know they were there, and I would still want to kiss them, I suspect.”

Thenvunin stalls.

Blinks.

“…What?” he asks.

Uthvir tilts their head.

“I want to kiss them,” they say. “I thought you knew? They are very pretty. I never considered what you might look like with speckles, but the decoration suits you. Somehow they make your skin look… softer. Richer. I suppose it is the extra texture. I know better, but part of me wonders if they do not feel warmer than the rest of your skin. It makes me want to kiss them, to find out.”

Thenvunin’s mind utterly blanks, for a few moments, and then attempts valiantly to reorient itself. His freckles are a problem, but not because they are unsightly. 

“They are taxing your restraint?” he asks, a little faintly. He is… that is to say, he has not been entirely certain if… well. Uthvir has not lain with him, in that way, since Andruil. Part of him knows better, certainly; Uthvir was as subject to her whims as anyone else. But part of him also cannot help but think that he has become too damaged, just the same, for their tastes.

“Do not worry. It is not more than I can handle,” the hunter assures him. “And it is hardly your fault. The problem is mine, and my restraint is up to the challenge.”

They smile, and Thenvunin’s mouth goes dry at the thought of their lips, pressing against his cheeks. His shoulders. The back of his neck, and his forearms…

He clears his throat.

“Yes. Well. A kiss or two would… I mean, if you really wish to…”

He trails off, as Uthvir’s eyebrows go up.

There is a delicate pause between them. 

Then the hunter moves closer. Slowly. Their gaze settling into his, before they lift a hand to his cheek, and brush their fingers across his jaw. He swallows, and they coax him downwards. Their gaze half-lidded as they kiss the bridge of his nose, and then the tops of his cheeks. Their lips are perilously gentle, before they take his hand, and raise his wrist up, and kiss the freckles on the back of it as well.

“Hmm. Beautiful,” they say.

Thenvunin’s heart skips a beat. They are so close, it would be such an easy thing for them to kiss him. To take him into their arms. Press a leg between his, or pull him over towards the bed. He feels a mingled rush of want and arousal and trepidation and fear, as the thought occurs to him before even the recollection that their daughter is just outside can chase it away.

Uthvir smiles, and takes a step back.

“Thank you,” they tell him. “I have been wanting to do that all week.”

“It was no hardship,” they assure him.

But they make no further moves that day, and for that, he is ultimately glad.

 

~

 

Thenvunin smells like sunlight.

Like warm, summer rays beating down on the white stonework of Daran’s largest ‘bath house’ - a veritable lake, at a little outpost just outside the city, nestled over a spring that attracts throngs of spirits and elves alike. It is a very serene place, though often crowded in the summer; still, there are enough trees and secluded, walled-off sections of the baths that it is not difficult to find some privacy.

Uthvir has been surprised by Thenvunin’s fondness for the place. He normally has a strong preference towards bathing in private these days - like them. But the only thing that betrays even a hint of unease is his insistence upon taking a blade with him when he goes.

Uthvir had gone with him the first few times he had expressed an interest as well. They had drawn some curious looks, as they lounged by the baths in light armour. But it had not taken them long to realize the appeal of the place. There was enough of a balance between activity and privacy that the baths felt neither too exposed, nor secluded enough to permit illegal transgressions. Some of the younger elves were present, along with their families; and the abundant nature made the springs feel very rejuvenating.

There were also, to Uthvir’s great amusement, birds. More specifically, there were peacocks. Blue and green, and purple and red, and white, and black. Calling to one another and sauntering through the greenery around the baths, fanning out their tail feathers and otherwise making for pleasant decorations. Thenvunin had swiftly developed a preference for one of the more natural pools; nestling himself against the tree roots, and watching the birds.

After the first dozen or so visits, Uthvir had determined that the baths were safe enough, and they scarcely worry when Thenvunin takes to them alone. Though he generally prefers the shaded areas, as those are where the peacocks tend to congregate. Along with a few other, colourful little birds, which Uthvir is almost guaranteed to hear about at length after a visit to the baths. There is a nest, apparently.

But today, Thenvunin comes back from the baths, shirtless and freckled and smelling like the warm, white stones that some elves use for tanning. Not that Thenvunin tans. He freckles, or else he burns. Uthvir tans, but it tends to work a bit oddly with the manufactured hues in their skin tones, and in they are not careful, they can turn an odd greenish shade. Given that tanning usually involves exposing skin while outdoors, however, it has never been a very great concern for them..

They is at their desk, reviewing scouting reports, when their beloved just-so-happens to come into their study to ask if they have seen his amethyst hair clip.

“Is it not in your jewellery box?” Uthvir asks, raising their eyebrows as Thenvunin draws closer under the pretence of checking their desk. Where his hair clips never are. The sunny scent of him washing over them, as his hand just happens to brush the bared skin of their bicep.

“I suppose I should go check again,” Thenvunin muses. “In my room.”

He stretches, and sighs, and just so happens to give Uthvir a very nice view of his hips as his pants shift a little lower down them, before he turns and saunters back out.

The freckles had gone somewhat lower than usual.

Uthvir gives it a solid minute, just to hold onto the illusion of restraint, before they stand up, and head straight for Thenvunin’s rooms. Where he has moved his jewellery box into the middle of the floor, and is kneeling down and making a slow, deliberate show of examining the items in it. The broad, inviting expanse of his back is peppered with faint, warm dots. Uthvir settles behind him, suddenly glad that the warm weather has kept them from donning their usual armour in private these days. It makes it much simpler to press themselves against Thenvunin’s back, and bury their nose in his hair, and breathe him in.

“Oh, Uthvir. Did you want something?” Thenvunin asks. Playing  _coy._  He is a fine mood, most definitely.

They sweep their arms around him, and trail their fingers down his chest.

“Did you find your hair clip?” they tease. Dragging their hands down towards his waistband. His breath hitches, and something in them purrs in approval. He is so warm. Not worryingly so, thankfully. Just enough that it makes them want to drink him up. This close they can also smell the soft floral scent of his soaps, too.

“I did, in fact,” Thenvunin tells them. “You were right. It was in the jewellery box after… a-all.” His voice breaks, just a little, as Uthvir dips a finger into his navel and slides their other hand beneath his waistband. His own touch lands against their leg, and he twists towards them. They press a kiss to his temple.

“I suppose now that the search is done, I shall have to find something else to do with my time,” he muses.

“Hmm,” Uthvir replies. They spread their fingers over the top of his hip bone, beneath his pants, and tease their touch up and down his abdomen. Where they had seen those fascinating new little freckles, just faintly dusting his skin. “Are you open to suggestions?”

Thenvunin’s grip twitches against their pant leg.

“Naturally,” he breathes out.

Uthvir nuzzles his temple, and draws a few lazy circles across his skin. They wonder how much patience he will have for this game.

“You could go for a walk,” they suggest. Carefully, they drag their nails up the soft skin of his stomach; working one of the thumbs back and forth across his hip.

Thenvunin shifts a little closer towards them. Pressing his backside more firmly against their crotch.

“I just walked back from the springs,” he counters. His breath hitches as they lazily circle the edge of one of his nipples.

“Read a book?” they offer, and swallow back a growl as Thenvunin’s hips squirm towards them again.

“ _Uthvir_ ,” he protests. Much to their amusement; he started this game, after all.

They move their lips the shell of his ear, and gently nip the sensitive skin there.

“I am just making suggestions,” they whisper, and slowly draw their right hand up from his pants, only to catch his waistband and begin pressing it down. Thenvunin leans against them and shifts his hips upwards, giving them a beautiful view of his neck as his throat bobs. He squeezes their thigh.

“But obviously they are not the right suggestions,” they muse, inhaling deeply. “Let me see… perhaps we should do something together. What do you think?”

Thenvunin shimmies his hips a little higher.

“I think you should bury your cock in my ass and come inside of me,” he huffs.

Uthvir’s brain stalls, as Thenvunin’s impatient boldness almost immediately floods into embarrassment. The visceral rush of  _heat_  they feel is tempered only by the fact that Thenvunin has gone from enticing to mortified in the span of a single sentence, and he lets go of Uthvir to cover his face with both of his hands.

They shift their own grip on him in response, tamping down on the very strong impulse to rip off his pants, and hugging him close to them instead. They press a kiss to the back of his ear, and spread their palm over top of his hammering heartbeat.

“ _Thenvunin_ ,” they murmur adoringly, and let their desire flood the air around them. 

It is not quite enough, though, to dispel the surge of humiliation which has come upon him. He shudders with it, and his hands remain on his face. The sour feeling of self-revulsion colouring the atmosphere, banishing the playfulness and cooling Uthvir’s libido. The soft motions of their hands turn from enticing to comforting, instead, firmer and far less teasing, as they run a hand across his chest, and close their eyes, and try to ease his misery.

When he starts to cry, something in them twists.

“Thenvunin, it is alright,” they promise. “It is alright, beloved. You did not do anything shameful. That was a very pleasant suggestion.”

They do not think words will help, however. Thenvunin curls in on himself, and they let him go, wondering if it would be better to give him some space or to stay close. They settle for moving around to the front of him, carefully shifting his jewellery box aside and squeezing his shoulder. Sitting with him as he sobs, until the worst of the ugly self-loathing and confused misery has abated. Until he has tentatively lowered his hands from his face.

They brush a few strands of his hair back from where they have gotten stuck in his tears, and draw up a handkerchief from one of the box’s compartments so he can wipe his face.

“I am sorry,” he whispers.

Uthvir brushes his cheek, and coaxes him close enough to rest his forehead against theirs.

“Do not be. I should not have pressed it,” they reply. “I like it when you say that you want me.” They forget, sometimes, that he thinks it is degrading. That he thought it was before Andruil managed to compound every single reservation he had. He turns away from them a little, and they venture just enough to kiss the dusty freckles on his cheeks. “I like it when you are inside me as well, you know. When you stretch me open, and thrust into me, and come in me.” They swallow, hesitating a moment before winding their arms around his shoulders. 

Admitting to an enjoyment of sexual acts is not difficult for them. Not the way that it is for him. Thenvunin closes his eyes and rests his tear-stained face against them, and they muster themselves.

“I like it when you hold me. When you treat me as if I deserve gentleness. I crave, it sometimes.”

Thenvunin stills.

Uthvir braces themselves, at the admission of weakness. This close there is no disguising their own trepidation; nor Thenvunin’s surprise, as he seems to think for a moment, before curling his own arms carefully around them. His breath ghosts across the skin of their neck as he nudges just a bit close, and then presses his lips to them. Slow and careful.

“That was not a request,” they hasten to clarify, brushing a hand over the back of his shoulder. “I mean, if you are… we do not have to do anything at all, given…”

Thenvunin shifts around, and pulls them more fully into his lap, and nods in acknowledgement. Then he kisses their neck again, Spreading one broad palm against their lower back.

They swallow.

The air between them is beginning to shift again. Though, not quite to what it had been before. They open their mouth to suggest something, and then almost immediately forget what it was as Thenvunin sweeps his hands beneath their legs, and manages to lift them up as he stands. The move is not quite  _graceful,_  but it is swiftly done, and Uthvir blinks and reflexively clutches at Thenvunin’s shoulders as they find themselves swept up, and carried over to the bed.

Their mouth opens and closes a few times as Thenvunin deposits them - gently - on top of his blankets.

Their heart hammers, the faintest touch of apprehension escaping them. Such a thing for them to have admitted to. Their softness can be so easy to exploit; but what else could they offer? They know his weaknesses so well by now. Fear is unsettled; but letting him hold theirs… perhaps it will make it easier for him, to stare at his own. In the moment, anything that could have eased that sickly self-loathing had seemed worth it.

They are not quite so certain, now.

Thenvunin frames their face between his hands and presses a kiss to their brow.

“I love you,” he tells them. “You deserve every gentleness.”

“I am not meant for gentle things,” they whisper. They do not mean to. It slips out; a perilous confession, and Fear stays their tongue from offering anymore, as Thenvunin climbs onto the bed with them. Coaxing them back against the pillows, and kissing them. Brushing stubbornly gentle touches down their sides.

“If you were not, I do not think you would want them so much,” he whispers. “I do not think you would provoke such tenderness in me, sometimes. Uthvir. It is alright. Your secrets are as safe with me as mine are with you.”

 _Not all of them,_  they think. Not all of them, but they want so badly for that to be true. But if he knew, he would not say such things. If he knew, he would be horrified with them. They swallow, and feel a rush of horror as their own eyes begin to sting. Thenvunin makes a pained sound and cups their cheek, as they close their eyes and will their equilibrium back.

Why is it so  _difficult_  to regain?

Why is it so hard to even recall why they need it, when Thenvunin still smells like sunlight; pressing freckle-dusted cheeks to them, his skin warm against their hands as they make one last, pitiful effort at concealment and bury their face into the edges of his hair. Biting out a curse.

How did this even happen?

They were supposed to be comforting Thenvunin, not the other way around. Fear is like a jagged edge against their ribs, but it as if some line has been cracked up between themselves and Thenvunin, and it is impossible to keep some stray vulnerability from stumbling into it. They clutch him closer, and force themselves to take deep, even breaths; and at length, the off-kilter sensations begin to abate.

They sigh.

“I am sorry,” they say. “I did not mean to lose my composure that badly.”

“I never mean to either,” Thenvunin replies, somewhat wry. He relinquishes some of his hold on them, though. Rolling aside and resting a hand atop their hip. His gaze is very soft. It seems only softer, still, with the lightly speckled skin and the pale halo of his hair surrounding it. He plucks, gently, at the tight fabric of their shirt.

“May I?” he asks.

Uthvir shakes their head almost immediately, however. Not that they distrust any of his intentions, but they are far too raw. The fabric is the only barrier they have left.

Thenvunin only nods, though, and presses a hand over top of their shirt instead. Uthvir rolls to their side, facing him more fully, and takes a closer look at the freckles on the front of him. They lean in, and press their lips to his collarbone. Tasting his sun-kissed skin.

“You must have looked so beautiful, lounging on those tanning stones,” they muse, readily diverting the conversation. “Did you manage to get freckles on every inch of you?”

“Of course not. I do not use the tanning stones; what would be the point?” he says, in something approaching a more ordinary tone. But his hand is very gentle, when he works it into their hair, and squirms his way more fully onto his back. Uthvir leans over him, readily. Moving their kisses slowly down towards his stomach.

“Did any show up on your cock?” they wonder; and though the question is meant to help shift the mood further still, they find they are actually legitimately curious. Thenvunin’s hips shift, and he makes a somewhat consternated sound at them.

“I am sure I do not know  _what_  you are implying,” he says, and the playful tone eases its way back into things. Just slightly.

Uthvir kisses their way down to his navel. They like the little cluster of freckles that have gathered there quite a bit. They are very faint, and it could just be their imagination, but they think Thenvunin’s skin tastes softer, too, as they press their tongue against the dip in his flesh, and then drag it downwards.

Thenvunin’s hips buck, just a little.

Another day, and Uthvir thinks they would linger with that. But even if some playfulness has come back, they do not think they are in the mood to risk teasing him again. So instead they content themselves with a kiss to his stomach, before they undo the fastenings on his pants, and lean back to pull them off of him.

They do their take in admiring their way back up his legs, though, before settling between them, and taking stock of his gradually-swelling member. The flushed skin makes it harder to tell, but they spy several freckles on his inner thighs, and the trend of them has definitely made for a continuous pattern across his body.

They brush a hand over him, and then lean in and drag their tongue carefully up his shaft.

“Hmm,” they say. “There are freckles here. I can taste them.”

“They do not have a taste!” Thenvunin insists.

They raise an eyebrow at him.

“Of course they do. It is very, very difficult to resist,” they tell him, and then lick their lips, and get to work on proving it. And there does seem to be an effect, though they suspect it  _likely_  has more to do with a day spend soaking up the sun and resting in various rejuvenating pools than the actual speckles in question. Still, it is a charming thought. They keep it in mind as they suck Thenvunin off, humming contemplatively around him until one of his hands is clasped tightly over his mouth, and he is flushed and trembling.

It does not take long for him to come.

They lick him clean, afterwards, and kiss and nip their way across his hip bones, before climbing back up to him. Thenvunin pulls them to his chest, and lets out a very long breath.

“I wanted to get freckles everywhere you put your mouth on me,” he admits, tentatively. “Since you find them so pleasant.”

Uthvir feels a rush of surprise at the admission. And the nature of it; they suspected he had gone and cultivated them on purpose but they supposed it was because he had decided they were attractive; not as part of some effort to make sex more enjoyable for  _them._

They press a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

“I find your skin wholly pleasant in all forms,” they assure him. He smiles, and cuddles closer.

They pause, a moment.

“There must be  _so many_  on your ass,” they then muse.

Thenvunin makes a pained sound.

 

~

 

A meeting with several of Mana’Din’s strategists – and Mana’Din herself – runs late into the evening.

It happens, from time to time. Especially when people are set on being, in Thenvunin’s esteemed opinion, complete and utter fools. But the matter of how to handle some recent distribution difficulties is settled an hour before midnight, and he is at last freed.

His clothes feel unpleasantly heavy from an evening spent intermittently sweating into a conference chair, but it is a relief to step into his and Uthvir’s chambers and feel a cool breeze wafting in from the gardens. He half expects to find the hunter standing outside, as he makes a quick check of things. But the garden is hosting only the sleeping outlines of his birds. Nestled into their favourite roost. Thenvunin sighs, and pulls out his hair clips, and heads back inside.

He leaves the door open. There is no good reason not to, and it is very cooling. He goes and checks Uthvir’s rooms, and frowns when he finds them empty. What were they doing today…? Meeting with some of their people, he thinks, and reviewing some new reports from Irassalas, and something to do with peacekeepers that Thenvunin was not to know the details of. He feels a trill of worry. Perhaps one of their own meetings has run late; even so, he thinks, he should check.

He goes to his chambers to quickly change clothes, intent on setting back out again, and halts.

Uthvir is in his bed.

Uthvir is – or was –  _sleeping_  in his bed.

The hunter shifts around as he crosses the threshold however. Rolling over and catching sight of Thenvunin, before they let out a tired breath.

His worry intensifies many times over. Uthvir does like to sleep in his bed; but generally when Thenvunin is also in it. He had not noticed anything wrong with their own, but then, he had not truly been looking. It is strange enough to find them sleeping at this hour, however. Especially without his prompting them to.

Are they hurt?

He frowns, and makes his way over to the bed.

“Do not fret,” Uthvir says, straight away. Blinking back sleep, and sitting up. They seem… embarrassed.

“What is the matter?” Thenvunin asks, anyway.

“Nothing,” they assure him. “My exhaustion just snuck up on me. Your room was cooler; I did not think you would mind.”

“I do not mind in the least,” he promises, and the sudden knot that had twisted into his chest begins to unclench in relief. They are fine. He is not entirely certain he believes their claim of finding his rooms cooler, but so long as there is no dire matter behind this… odd little turn of events, he will not object. Uthvir has stripped down to their lowest layers, too, which does give some credence to them being overheated. They are clad only in a dark undershirt and shorts.

Thenvunin finds his gaze trailing over them. There is still an air of sleepiness to them. A lack of tension in their shoulders, a softening of the sharpness in their gaze. It makes him want to close the door, so no one else will see; even though it is ridiculous to think that someone could just come barging into their chambers all the same.

Still. He gives into the impulse; standing and closing the door, and then letting out a long breath. The windows are still open, but for some reason, that does not seem as concerning. Uthvir moves to the side of the bed, and quirks an eyebrow up as Thenvunin begins pulling off his own itching layers. He wrinkles his nose at his tunic, and pulls a bottle of cleansing oil from one of his cabinets; wiping away the lingering feel of griminess as he frees his skin.

“I can go,” Uthvir offers.

Thenvunin glances at them.

“Do not be ridiculous. Why should you go?” he wonders. “It is cooler in here, as you said. Though we might change the sheets, if you have been sweating. There are a few other sets in the closet. The blue ones have a cooling charm on them, too. Shall I fetch them?”

Uthvir contemplates this for a moment, before getting up.

“I think I can find them,” they say. “Did you want a bath?”

Thenvunin shakes his head.

A few minutes ago, he thinks, he would have stabbed a man for one. But now he finds himself wholly disinclined to leave the room again. He pulls up another bottle of cleaner, and finds that suits him well enough anyway. He no longer feels like he spent half the day sitting in a sandbox; and Uthvir is… he blinks, and stares, as they stand on tip-toes in his closet to reach the replacement sheets.

They always look so much  _slighter,_  with their armour off.

Still a wealth of compact muscle and strength, no doubt. But it always feels so remarkably intimate, seeing them do things like this. With their armour off, and a few lines from their scars visible around the dark lines of their undershirt. Their hair tousled from sleep. They pick up the bundle of sheets, and Thenvunin decides not to bother with his usual nighttime robe, as he walks over and begins stripping the bed in turn.

“If you keep bending over like that, we are going to get  _these_  sheets all sweaty,” Uthvir notes, moving close enough to press a kiss to his shoulder.

“The cooling charms would still make up for it,” Thenvunin counters, and his hunter chuckles as he bends over again – a little more slowly this time.

But that is not quite, he thinks, what he is in the mood for, as they finally climb into the bed together. One of Uthvir’s hands trails down his hip, and he catches their wrist, and draws it up for a kiss instead. He turns towards them, dragging the sheet up over them. It is very pleasant, in fact. Like an oasis. Uthvir’s skin looks very gold over the pale blue of the blankets, before the lights dim, and bathe them in the glow of the moon instead.

 _I am going to marry you someday,_  Thenvunin thinks.

The thought is a quiet one. But full of a strangely stirring resolve. He does not look away from it, as it passes through his mind. But he does not dwell on it, either. It feels almost like a bird, winging past an open window. Hardly a surprise to see, and certainly interesting enough to note; but not, in and of itself, worth being concerned over.

It is just… something he has figured out, now. Something that has worked its way up, and suddenly seems very clear.

He draws them close. They do not shy away, or hesitate, tonight. Nor does he. They are soft and familiar in his arms, as he presses a gentle kiss to the corner of their mouth, and thinks of his sharp hunter. Who can pin him to the ground in a heartbeat. Who can bring down monsters the size of small buildings. Who can stalk, and grin, and look at him with sharp, hungry eyes, that light molten fire in him. And who stands on tip-toes to reach the top of his closet; who wants affection so badly they think it is an embarrassment.

“I love you,” he sighs. “Uthvir. I love you so. My heart.”

As poetry goes, it is not precisely inventive. But Uthvir shivers, just a bit; and the air around them suffuses with an almost-painful affection, as they curl in closer to him.

Thenvunin runs a hand across their bicep. And then draws it up, to trail his fingers through their hair. To think he was once utterly convinced that they lacked any hint of restraint. That they were like some feral beast; back before he had ever been in the clutches of a real one. But even the press of their nails at his back cannot remotely draw him back to such a mindset. There is some undercurrent between them, that is far too true and strong, to allow for that kind of misunderstanding.

Uthvir is pressed close enough that Thenvunin can feel the gentle thrum of their pulse. Just faintly; fluttering like a butterfly’s wings. Like it is in tune with his own, and  _oh,_  he thinks. Another rush of realization slipping into him, as he cradles their cheek, and kisses them once more.

Oh.

He will… have to look into this, he supposes. Connections and bonds, and the particulars. He recalls his mother explaining it to him, at length, but that was ages ago. Some part of him is shocked; and yet another part of him scoffs at that internal surprise.  _Really, Thenvunin,_  it goes.  _What did you think would come of all of this? Think to the future. Do you see a day coming when you are finished with Uthvir? When all that has passed between you is simply left behind as history, and they are no longer part of you anymore? No one longer someone you reach for?_

_When were you ever going to get that tired of them?_

Never, he supposes. Or at least, the deal was done at some point in the dark, when Thenvunin’s irrational anger towards them – blaming them for what had happened; even as he knew he could not manage to do so without blaming them for things he would  _not_  have retracted – had at last exhausted itself. When he had leaned upon them fully, and found that they could hold him up; and when they had fallen into his arms, and he discovered that he could hold them, too.

“I love you,” he whispers again.

“You know, you do not need to say it quite so many times,” Uthvir quips. Their voice is low and secretive, however. Half lost beneath the sheet. “My memory is not that terrible.”

But the air around them is suffused with just a touch of vulnerability, and Thenvunin can just  _tell._  They like when he says it. Some part of them has troubles fully believing it, and so they need it.

It is such an easy thing to say, in the end.

“I suppose it could get repetitive,” he muses, and slips a hand beneath their shirt. Trailing his touch, carefully, across their side. “I cherish you. I adore you. You are my heart, my beloved, my darling.”

Uthvir chuckles.

“Showing off your vocabulary?” they wonder. Their tone is light. But they are still snuggled close, and everything feels so  _soft._

“Mm. I am not quite as good with compliments as you are,” Thenvunin concedes. He brushes his touch down to the waistband of their shorts, then; curling one hand around their lower back, and dipping his palm just slightly across the top of their backside, and working the other beneath the fabric and onto their thigh. He slides a leg between theirs, and their nails trail lightly down his back.

“Your compliments… still suffice,” Uthvir allows. Their face tucked up by his neck.

Thenvunin kisses their shoulder.

He keeps his ministrations slow and steady, then. His compliments simple and sincere, as he brushes his hands beneath their clothes. Slips his fingers between their legs, and finds the warmth pooling there. Uthvir sighs, as he begins to gently work his touch over the sensitive cluster of their nerves. Their hips rock, and they reach down and tug their shorts lower; twisting themselves against him in obvious invitation.

“Fuck me,” they invite.

Thenvunin frowns, and then presses another lingering kiss to their lips.

“Do not be ridiculous. I am  _making love_  to you,” he says. “Not anything so vulgar as ‘fucking’.”

Uthvir makes a sound that seems nearly pained.

“Vulgar?” they ask, a little breathlessly.

“That word absolutely is. Do not try and pretend that it is not,” he counters. “I should know. I mean it to be exceedingly vulgar whenever  _I_  make that sort of invitation.”

That earns him a snicker, and he finds himself uncommonly thrilled with it, even as his cheeks heat exponentially at his admission.

“I will be keeping that in mind,” Uthvir promises.

Damnable hunter.

They are never going to let him live that one down. Well. Not unless it becomes a serious issue, anyway. Then they will likely drop it as if it is a poisonous snake and take  _decades_  to even attempt broaching it again. Such a quandary, they present. Sometimes Thenvunin feels terrified that he will fall apart at just the right thing, and they will decide it is much too much and never touch him again.

But most days, he can assure himself that they would not make such a unilateral decision on his own well-being without discussing it, at least.

He presses a little more firmly against them, though, and they tilt their head back and sigh his name.

“Thenvunin.”

His heart skips.

He still takes his time, though. He is never quite confident in these things, the way that Uthvir tends to be. Are they loose enough? Can they themselves even tell, or are they simply  _aroused_  enough? He works them open, gradually widening his touch. It is so painful, to do it wrong. He closes his eyes and presses another kiss to the nearest patch of skin, and keeps a slow, steady pace, until he can turn three fingers easily inside of them. Their breaths are ragged, by then. One hand buried in his hair, while the other grips his shoulder.

A soft sound of protest escapes them when he finally pulls his hand away. But they do not protest at all when he finally sinks into them. They are  _shockingly_  soft, come to it. Slippery wet and welcoming, but somehow, having them like this always seems to defy his usual impatience. He thinks he could come in a heartbeat; but he does not want to. He does not want to spend himself, and have it be over. He does not want to take his pleasure before he gives them theirs, so he waits. He works himself into them slowly, and takes frequent pauses; and when he is at last fully inside of them, he still his hips, and wraps his arms around them, and trails kisses up the corner of their jaw.

Their own hips twist. Their legs wrapped around him.

“Thenvunin,” they say. “Quit being such a tease.”

He huffs.

“As if you have any room to criticise,” he murmurs back at them. Somehow his tone lacks any hint of annoyance, however. His pulse is pounding through his veins, his heart racing, his instincts demanding that he  _move_  but Thenvunin bites down on that, with the same reserves that help him swallow untoward gasps, or stifle betraying impulses. He focuses on his kisses, instead, until he is finally convinced that he will not go off like a shot at the first hint of friction; and then he gently, carefully, slides back out – not even halfway out – before pressing in again.

Uthvir twists encouragingly.

“If you keep going this slow, I am going to flip you over and take care of it myself,” they threaten.

They could do it, too.

Thenvunin gently nips at their earlobe.

“Liar,” he whispers.

They sigh.

 _“Thenvunin,”_  they protest, and press their hips upwards. His breath hitches, and he replies with another shallow thrust. And then a third, and fourth. Slow and gentle, just rocking his hips, but after a few minutes of it Uthvir is trembling. One of their hands slips between the two of them, and they start touching themselves, until Thenvunin bats it away and takes over with that instead. Using his thumb, but still keeping the pace slow and steady.

Uthvir sighs.

“Alright,” they relent. Though their internal walls tighten around him, and Thenvunin finds he has to stop for another moment. He settles into caressing them once more; drawing his hands down their thighs, and pressing his lips to their temple. They set their own to his throat, and trace patterns across his back with the tips of their nails.

“My heart,” he whispers. “I do love you, so very much.”

“…I love you, too,” they return, in that breathless, monumental way of theirs.

He kisses their forehead, and settles back into his pace again. Sweeping his hands beneath their hips, and moving just a little more firmly, until they pull him in for an urgent kiss and tighten around him again. Their pleasure bursting like a bright star through the air. They nip his lip, and Thenvunin presses his own face into the pillow behind them, to stifle his cries as he comes.

He knows they like to hear him.

He is still… working on that.

But they do not even remotely protest; only running their hands across his back, and wrapping their legs more firmly around him until he goes lax above them.

Then they coax him off of them, at last; though they do not, thankfully, seem to require  _much_ space, as they only settle him beside him, before pressing a string of kisses across his shoulders. Their hair is an absolute  _mess,_  and their eyes are suspiciously bright, as they whisper their own endearments across his skin.

The little touches are a pleasant aftermath. Thenvunin sinks against the pillows, and trails his fingers lazily across their cheek, as the echoes of his pleasure and the cool sheets, and Uthvir’s voice, all lull him into sated exhaustion.

“Thank you,” Uthvir whispers.

He wakes up enough to frown at them, as they rest against his shoulder.

“You hardly need to thank me for that,” he says.

Uthvir closes their eyes, and lets out a long breath.

“Still,” they insist. “Thank you.”

He tuts.

“We will have to do this more often, if you are still thanking me for it,” he decides.

“Oh no. How terrible,” Uthvir drawls. “Let me retract my gratitude immediately. Please, say is not so, that we will not be having  _more_  sex. Likely on top of all the other sex that we already have.”

Thenvunin would hit them with a cushion. Really, he would. But he is far too tired to lift one. He makes do with sliding an arm around them, instead. Careful of their scars.

“Go to sleep. It is a reprehensible hour; why are you still awake?” he asks, with false chastisement.

Uthvir snorts.

 

~

 

Thenvunin does not often venture into Arlathan, these days.

Uthvir cannot say they blame him, overall. Since coming to this world they have seen Andruil precisely twice, and that is two times more than they would care for Thenvunin to see her. And they have had run-ins with high ranking hunters, of course, attendants and messengers and diplomats, merchants and resource managers. Not at length. Mana’Din has assigned neither of them any duties that would lead to that sort of thing. But in performing any sort of tasks within the city, such encounters are difficult to avoid entirely.

Uthvir does not mind it, per se. It is a little odd, to see people who have no knowledge of them. To see Andruil, and know that they need not go to her, or brace themselves to feel the weight of her expectations anymore. She is still an evanuris, of course, but Uthvir is a high-ranking servant belonging to someone else, now. And Mana’Din is there, both times, and seizes her aunt’s attention readily.

Andruil aside, in some ways, they even enjoy the situation. They can count on one hand the number of people who know anything about them, now, and none of them know the full details of Uthvir’s… situation. Mana’Din has surmised some of it, they think, but she seems content to keep her peace on the subject. And given that their life is technically hers to command anyway, they do not suppose it makes her more dangerous to them than she would be as a matter of course.

It is… amusing. To deal with hunters who have no idea of what Uthvir might know about  _them_ , in turn. Some of their knowledge does not apply, of course, but a surprising amount of it still does. They have heaps of blackmail information on most of Andruil’s highest ranking servants, and no longer a single, solitary obligation towards her to refrain from making full use of it.

Not that they run around exploiting everything straight away, of course. They are not that foolhardy.

But they pull a few strings, here and there, as needed.  Just enough, every now and again, to emphasize their potential value in a number of fields. Especially when Lavellan is still young, and things still feel… precarious.

There is no need for Thenvunin to explore such avenues, however. He is safely ensconced amidst his own duties, coordinating events, and training military recruits, and often helping with That Particular Estate. The one surrounding a certain, special eluvian. When he does come to Arlathan, primarily spends his time in Mana’Din’s estate or in the market district. Uthvir knows he worries about being recognized as himself. Mistaken for himself; that he does not like the idea, that he worries it could be too conspicuous, that he is uncertain at the prospect of having old friends and acquaintances greet him, without realizing he is not the man they think he is. In many respects.

But, few people mistake Thenvunin for himself, in the end. He dresses much differently these days. His short hair often bound up or pulled back, his clothing styles pared down, no longer attempting to disguise his shape in the latest trends, or downplay the impact of his musculature and frame. Sometimes the resemblance is remarked upon; one or two people inquire as to whether he is related to himself. But that is as far as it goes. The changes in his manner are enough to convince most people that it is purely a coincidence even before they speak to him.

The differences between ‘Thenerassan’ and his other self only seem to multiply, over the years. By the time Lavellan is grown, Uthvir can – in their brief encounters with the other Thenvunin – note contrasts in how they walk, how they speak, how they hold themselves. They are not entirely alien to one another, of course. Uthvir doubts they ever could be. But his Thenvunin has suffered a violence that the other has not. Has had his illusions stripped forcibly from him, and has been forced to piece himself back together in the aftermath of terrible mistreatment. The bubble of pretense and selective denial around him was not so much burst as it was eviscerated beyond recovery. And though he does not have scars in the way that Uthvir does, it has certainly reshaped him.

Things have been this way for some time when Mana’Din at last throws a city celebration at Sylaise’s insistent prompting. Celebrating the completion of the last of the work done in overhauling Falon’Din’s old estate. High ranking elves from throughout Elvhenan are brought in to attend, including both Thenvunins, and plenty of peacekeepers and personal guards, of course.

Uthvir’s mood is strange. They know it. Mana’Din’s city estate is markedly different enough from her uncle’s old property that, most of the time, it does not bother them. But for some reason, the celebration brings up odd memories in them. They wake the morning beforehand, and stare at the markings on their face. A modification of Falon’Din’s design.

A different colour than what Glory had worn. Simpler and less sprawling in style. But still similar enough that there are days when it alarms them. When Fear whispers that they have, in a twisted sense, come full circle. Once again, they are within death’s domain.

They do their best to put their unsettled feelings aside. Thenvunin, and several other event coordinators, have been working very hard to make certain this celebration will go off without a hitch. Uthvir has their own part to do in it, of course. They accompany several of their apprentices throughout the grounds, checking and re-fortifying the new wards, hunting down and recent espionage devices that may have been nestled into place, and checking both the obvious and innocuous avenues for insurgents, malcontents, or lone zealots to attempt to infiltrate the proceedings.

There are no real signs of trouble, though. They meet Thenvunin several times throughout the day, and assure him – honestly – that things seem to be going as well as can be expected. One former follower of Falon’Din’s, a loyalist who objects to the remaining evanuris, is found attempting to swim in through a waterway. Uthvir lets the wards take care of her, more or less, and then fishes her out before she drowns and hands her over to the peacekeepers.

They do wonder, though, as they stare at her unconscious face. What fool would want Falon’Din back?

What fool would miss Andruil, for that matter?

But they do, sometimes. Not in any  _actionable_  way. They would not seek her out. They are glad to be rid of her, and they are profoundly glad that Thenvunin and Lavellan are rid of her, too. And yet. Even after all this time, there are habits in them that are ingrained towards her. Loyalties – or what shades of loyalty they can manage – that have no completely died. There are days when people speak of the hunters, of her camp, and Uthvir still feels like they belong to it. Those two times they saw her, there was a part of them that was, even after so long, compelled to go and stand at her side.

 _Fool_.

The would-be assassin, or perhaps saboteur, does not wake before they finish delivering her into the peacekeepers’ hands.

In the end, they arrive to the party after it has already begun; finishing a final patrol around the grounds during the initial chaos of the guests’ arrival, before leaving their apprentices to it and withdrawing to observe the celebrations themselves. Mana’Din’s estate is, like much of her refashioned homes, nothing like Falon’Din’s. The existing building was torn up entirely, even down to the pipes. Spiked palace walls and blood red moats have been replaced with a series of single-story buildings, interconnected by walkways lined with babbling rivers and soft, leafy willow trees. Floating paper lanterns light the grounds, and spirits from the city come to them in curious abundance. The way the part is lit makes it difficult to tell, at times, whether a figure along the paths is an elf or a spirit or even a stray garden statue.

There are no altars, nor raised platforms, and Mana’Din’s throne is little more than an elegant white seat in the far corner of the main hall. Rarely utilized.

The new layout is much more friendly, and Uthvir vastly prefers it, but it does make security more difficult. There are more places to hide, more indirect routes between the buildings, and more open air to take advantage of. They are at their work for some time before they catch their first glimpse of either Thenvunin.

The one they do see first, they recognize immediately as the one native to this world.

He is dressed in black. Or perhaps a very dark colour, that is near enough to seem black in the less brightly-lit spaces. Purple boots climb up his calves, and a purple-and-blue mantle falls across his shoulders, lined with shimmering scales. There are bracelet chains all up and down his arms. Gem-studded hoops in his ears, and silver paint on his face that Uthvir can see even at a distance. His nails are shimmering so much, they look like tiny stars whenever he lifts his hand to take a sip from his gauntlet.

He catches sight of them, possibly drawn by the feeling of eyes on himself, and blinks as they make their way by.

“Oh,” he says. “Uthvir.”

They pause.

That he recognizes them so easily, and recalls their name so readily, is something of a surprise; given that they haven’t spoken to him since that one incident when they needed to claim some birds from him, after all.

“Thenvunin,” they return, with a nod. “I hope you are having a pleasant evening?”

“The refreshments are acceptable, I suppose, though there is not enough room for outdoor dancing,” Thenvunin opines. “And the invitations were woefully unclear on the aesthetic requirements for the gathering.”

“Mana’Din does not have many,” Uthvir allows, at once amused and a little wary. Not of Thenvunin himself, really, so much as of the entire situation wherein he is speaking to them. That is… probably not a habit to encourage, and they had not thought to make a lasting impression on him.

The opposite, in fact.

Thenvunin tuts.

“Even Ghilan’nain’s people specify more,” he says. Then he sighs. “Though I suppose it has at least allowed people to come out in relative splendour, without worrying about proper coordination. Some of Sylaise’s attendants have been having fits. I suppose I cannot blame them. Their constitutions are notoriously delicate.”

Uthvir’s lips twitch at his tone.

“Mythal’s followers are much hardier,” they allow. “Though I am certain the Hearthkeeper’s servants will recover, in time.”

Thenvunin makes a politely agreeing sound, and takes a few steps closer. His gaze passes carefully over Uthvir’s own attire.

“That is a very… fearsome look,” he declares.

“Thank you,” they reply. Courtesy requires them to return an observation. They tilt their head, considering his ensemble for a moment. “I quite like your bright colours. Black does not do you justice; you should be wreathed in flowers. Or shining feathers, perhaps. Gemstones could work, also, but a certain richness and vitality suits you.”

Thenvunin blinks.

…That might have been over doing things.

His cheeks colour, just faintly, and he clears his throat.

“Well. Thank you,” he says. His finger taps against the side of his goblet, and he looks as if he is about to say more. Uthvir has a deep suspicion that the conversation is going to turn towards birds, in a moment. But to their great fortune, the fireworks displays begin, then. And in the crackling expanse of magic that fills the sky, they are able to make a swift – but not impolite – withdrawal.

They find their own Thenvunin, not long after that, and something warm settles into them at the sight of him. He is wearing blue as well, but it is a fluttering, floating jewel tone that falls down his arms in sheer sleeves, with a light, equally sheer dress clinging to his thighs and torso in elegant shapes and patterns. A contrasting red ribbon is bound up into his hair, and he is smiling. There is no nervous air about him; though, of course, that does not mean he is not disguising some nervousness. But their daughter is with him, and he is speaking to some of June’s people about their design work in the main hall.

June’s people look rather smitten.

Uthvir does not blame them in the least, and has few concerns that they will be able to make untoward moves on their enchantment with Lavellan right there.

They are about to make their way over before one of Sylaise’s people intercepts them.

Uthvir pauses at the sight of the man. His name escapes them, but they do recognize him from their own world, and from some dealings in this one. One of the attendants and guards, they think. He is tall, with dark hair and an easy countenance, and he smiles at them with more readiness than most people manage on their first try.

“Uthvir!” he greets. People are proving surprisingly adept at remembering their name. They are going to blame that on Mana’Din’s dearth of appropriately terrifying high-ranking followers. “I have yet to see  _you_  take to the dance floor. Perhaps you would do me the honour? I fear many of my lady’s other attendants had to withdraw early from the celebrations, due to dizziness. Too much uncoordinated beauty all in one place can overwhelm the senses.”

Uthvir glances at Thenvunin and Lavellan again, but they do not have  _quite_  the same reputation in this world as in the other. And they are not trying, in general, to foster impoliteness.

“Very well,” they allow. “Since you asked so charmingly.”

The attendant – they wrack their mind for a name, and eventually Fear supplies ‘Venavis-something just call him Vena’ – takes them by the hand, but lets them lead readily enough. He chats, quite a bit, as they turn around the dance floor. The gown he is wearing is long and pale pink, and does not quite suit his features; Uthvir suspects it was chosen to compliment either Sylaise or her other attendants, or, most likely, both.

“It is a beautiful evening,” Vena observes. “I find myself most enchanted by all the preparations made. Some have criticized the lack of coordination, but it is a refreshing change of pace. It gives individuals more of a chance to shine, I think. To show off interesting displays and designs; though you seem to have stuck to the same styles as ever.”

Uthvir shrugs.

“Why change what works?” they wonder.

“That is what I always say!” Vena insists, whirling obligingly, before coming back in and resting his arms atop their shoulders. “Though, I must admit, I think I would enjoy getting to see Mana’Din’s infamous guard outside of their hard shells. I harbour a suspicion that you are quite soft, beneath the edges.”

Uthvir tamps down on a sudden wave of discomfort.

They smile, all teeth.

“I fear I would disappoint your suspicions,” they say.

“Ah, the tough act,” Vena replies, ploughing along. He even winks. “Kind of hard to hold onto it, though, with all that evidence to the contrary. The darling, approachable daughter, the utterly smitten and indulged lover. I know how it is, being a guard, but I would wager that if I pulled that armour off of you, I would find something sweet…”

Fear is sharp, and Uthvir’s mind races as they wonder how many people have come to similarly appalling conclusions about them, and it is, perhaps, a testament to how focused they are on not giving too much away, that they do not even notice their Thenvunin until he has neatly cut into the dance.

Vena blinks.

So does Uthvir, for that matter, as their vision is briefly overtaken with fluttering blue.

‘Thenerassan’ levels a look at Vena.

“Forgive me. But I have not had the chance to dance with my paramour all evening, Venavismi. And I do believe yours is still reeling over by the public wash house,” he says, projecting a less-than-polite air of ‘go away right now’ directly at Sylaise’s attendant.

The man’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. He raises his hands, as he withdraws.

“No harm meant,” he says.

Uthvir offers him an amused look, pointedly attempting to dismiss the entire encounter, before he finally goes.  Thenvunin’s grip on them is steady, as they resume the steps to the dance he has intercepted. As soon as they are alone, he looks at them with unabashed concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

They swallow, and adjust their grip on him when they realize their gauntlets are too liable to accidentally shred part of his outfit.

“Of course,” they say. “I am sorry. If I had known you wished to dance with me, I would have reserved the first of mine for you.”

Thenvunin shakes his head dismissively.

“Do not be ridiculous. I mean, obviously, yes, I  _do_  like to dance with you, but I have been on my feet since midday and there are other celebrations to dance at. I only intervened because you seemed upset.”

Uthvir scowls, just slightly, and glances to some of the other nearby dancers. A few of Elgar’nan’s people, and some more of Sylaise’s. The most astute eyes they can spot are those of Melarue, one of the managers of the Pleasure District, but they are seemingly enraptured by their conversation with a Spirit of Patience. No evanuris are in this segment of the proceedings, at least; most of them are with Mana’Din in the north gardens, which allows the best views of the fireworks and the best acoustics for the evening’s musicians.

“Was it obvious?” they wonder.

Thenvunin thinks for a moment, but then shakes his head.

“I… no. Actually, I am not entirely certain where I got the idea that you were upset,” he admits. “I suppose I have just grown very accomplished at reading your body language. I doubt anyone else would notice.”

Well. That is a relief, provided he is correct. Uthvir manages a slightly easier smile for him, and then lets out a long breath.

“What did that Venavismi say to you?” he asks, frowning at them.  _Venavismi_. There it is.

“Nothing of consequence,” they assure him, and watch the red ribbon in his hair as they spin him outwards from themselves.

Thenvunin narrows his eyes.

“Uthvir,” he says.

“You look beautiful,” they tell him. “I have been all across the party grounds, and I feel I can safely say you are the most radiant figure of the evening. And there is a Spirit of Radiance in the north garden. When I saw you, my breath stopped. I forgot the passing of time, and all the pressing needs of my duties, and for an instant I could only see you. Only think of you. Just you, and all the things you and I have done with that ribbon in your hair.”

Thenvunin blushes, fiercely, and ducks his head before clearing his throat, and moving back into the swing of the dance.

“It is not the same ribbon,” he insists.

“It is absolutely the same ribbon,” Uthvir replies, grinning widely now, as at last the dance comes to a halt. Then they catch Thenvunin’s hand, and press a kiss to it, before moving with him to the sidelines.

Thenvunin lowers himself onto a convenient nearby bench, and Uthvir retrieves a glass of water for him. One of their apprentices approaches, then, with a problem involving some of the fireworks interfering with the upper barriers around the front gate, and they must take their leave again. They bow to Thenvunin, as he lets out a breath and smiles ruefully at them.

“Duty calls?” he asks.

Uthvir straightens up, somewhat, and plucks the trailing ribbon up from his shoulder. His eyes go gentle as they press their lips to it. But there, just faintly, comes some more colour in his cheeks, too.

“I will see you later,” they promise.

“I will hold you to that,” he returns, his voice low. And it puts a shiver through them, as he reaches up and brushes their cheek. His thumb tracing faintly across their lips, and they blink, as that is… bordering on public indecency, under the circumstances.

They smile, and the warmth in them is back.

“Good.”

 

~

 

The negotiator is one of Dirthamen’s people; and by that standard, he is uncommonly canny, cheerful, and flirtatious. He is meant to meet with Elalas to discuss some matters pertaining to a project at the border, but then an incident involving some of the more remote eluvian networks and suspicious activity from the insurgent groups crops up, and with one thing and another, Thenvunin ends up seeing to the issue instead.

He meets Dirthamen’s person in the morning. Forgoing breakfast for the sake of making prompt greetings. He dresses in his best new lavender outfit, with a comparatively simple hair clip set to keep his hair back. Uthvir is already gone by then, having left at dawn to deal with some of their own duties; Thenvunin wakes only briefly when they go, with the dim recollection of hands on his skin. A kiss to his lips.

For some reason, the impression of it decides to follow him into the day. It makes him feel just a little more aware of things. The shift of fabric against his skin. The brush of his own hair atop his shoulders. Today is a day, he thinks, when he wants to be touched. When the phantoms of a painful past are very far from his mind, and he can tentatively allow himself such desires. Even if only in the privacy of his own thoughts.

Thankfully, the negotiator’s flirtatiousness does not alarm him or deter his uncommon equilibrium. Melanadahl sports a variety of interesting tattoos, and knows to observe proper boundaries – to a degree.

“It’s a clever tactic of your lady’s, Thenerassan, to send her most beautiful followers to try and fluster our negotiations,” he asserts, at one point. Leaning in just a little closer than politeness might allow, and resting a hand on Thenvunin’s forearm.

He glances sidelong at the man, and carefully removes his fingers.

“If anyone is attempting to fluster negotiations, I believe it is you,” he counters.

“Perish the thought!”

“Mm. Well. Try to control your rampant lust for me, regardless,” Thenvunin advises, dryly, and Melanadahl laughs.

“Oh, I like you,” he says. “Tell you what. You just put your little approval signature on the temporary land use and compensation, and we can get out of here and do something more productive with our time.”

“Certainly not. The region you want to work with a sensitive area, anything even remotely in the timeframe you have specified will require extra security measures on our part, and these privacy demands are wholly unacceptable. Do not pretend this is simply a matter of time and compensation, Mana’Din’s interests do not always seamlessly align with her lord father’s. Nor should they…”

The debate carries on, and in the end, the negotiator leaves to return to Dirthamen’s territory to amend the proposal without an agreement being reached. He makes another grab for Thenvunin, just briefly. Ostensibly to remove a bit of detritus from his collar. His fingers brush the bared skin of Thenvunin’s chest, toying; but again, Thenvunin sends him away. Revelling in it a little. He does not want Melanadahl. And so he does not have to have him. He can send him off, and there is a certain, beautiful reassurance in watching him go.

It makes him think, though, of the brush of other fingers. Sharper ones. The morning coming back to him again.

And as the afternoon approaches, he finds his mind… straying, a lot. To thoughts of lips pressing against his skin, and hands trailing across the planes of his body. He feels flushed, and opens the front of his collar a little further as he finishes off his summation of the negotiations with Melanadahl. Shifting in his chair, and letting his own touch linger at his collar.

_Get a hold of yourself._

His study is quiet, though. Private. He supposes he could just take the edge off of things…

But that is not what he wants either, he thinks. What he wants are wandering hands, and firm angles pressed flush to him, and that voice in his ear. Those lips…

He checks the time.

Uthvir’s duties will keep them busy until evening.

Hours away.

Thenvunin shifts, and sucks in a breath, and decides to head out to the garden. That will distract him, certainly. He gets his papers in order and signs off on his report, before heading outside. Checking over the plants, and then seeing to his birds. It is very calming. There is a cool breeze, and gentle twittering and singing, and the new bird bath seems to be going over very well. Screecher swoops down to claim their fair share of attention, which Thenvunin happily provides.

He has to fix his hair again afterwards, though, as his birds repeatedly try to divest him of the tyranny of hair clips. By the time it’s becoming an issue, though, the sky is beginning to edge towards evening. He begins to head inside, and then he hears the door to their chambers open. The familiar sound of Uthvir’s footfalls – so quiet, despite their weighty armour – filters down from the entryway.

He pauses, and then moves over to the garden wall, instead. Double-checking his hair, before sitting down carefully onto a decorative stone nearby. He stretches out his legs, and opens his collar as far as it will go, and leans back a little.

It’s something of a wait. The stone is starting to press uncomfortably into him by the time Uthvir finally ventures into the garden. But at the first sight of red, of movement, of  _them,_ Thenvunin feels a bolt of anticipatory heat sear right through him.

Uthvir spies him in very little time.

Their eyebrows fly up, and their lips part just slightly.

“Uthvir,” Thenvunin greets. Nonchalant as can be, he thinks, until his hand almost slips on the stone. He catches it in time, though.

Uthvir’s lips tilt just slightly upwards, and they begin to prowl towards him.

“Why, Thenvunin,” they say. “How lovely you look, on your perch there. Have the garden benches proven insufficient for you?”

“This is a comfortable spot,” Thenvunin asserts.

On top of his boulder.

Which is getting very cold, too, as a matter of fact.

But he does not have much patience for games, he thinks; and when Uthvir prowls close enough, he reaches out a hand, and grasps them by the belt, and pulls them to him. His cheeks flushing, head tilting up towards him as their little smile turns to a full-blown smirk. Surprise colours the air, along with the arousal that… was, perhaps, a little louder than anticipated. At least, assuming it’s mostly his own.

And there’s some nebulous delight, too.

Thenvunin wants it all to turn to fire, he thinks. He reaches up and brushes a hand across Uthvir’s cheek, and leans in close to them.

“Take me,” he invites.

This close he can see as Uthvir’s pupils widen. Their hands close around him, and oh, yes, this is what he wants. The points of their gauntlets pressing into the folds of his clothing, their lips brushing across his jaw. They gaze heated, their intent rippling through the air.

“What brought this on?” they ask first, though. Thenvunin slides his hand towards the shell of their ear, and gently teases the flesh between his fingers. They reach up to catch his wrist, and press a kiss to his palm. Lips soft. Teeth lingering a moment, just by his pulse.

“My mood,” he admits, swallowing. He can do this. He wants them; shouldn’t that be simple, after all this time? After everything that’s happened? He feels like he’s tried to tell himself that a thousand times over by now. That all the snares which caught him up for three thousand years of living were never really what he thought they were. That the brief, violent chaos which broke him out and buried him elsewhere has passed, and is done with. Uthvir was never what he told himself they were.  _He_  was never what he told himself he was, either. He loves them. They love him. There’s no shame in wanting them, no shame in enjoying what they do to him.

A thousand times.

But this time, for whatever reason… this time it just… settles. For now.

The burst of unease he waits for doesn’t come.

The twisting churn of self-loathing, of guilt, of conflict, doesn’t spiral through him.

There’s barely a twinge.

He musters himself for an admission.

“I have been thinking about you all day,” he says. Low. Secretive. Uthvir eyes lock with his own, and he waits. And it’s just… true. He has been. On and off since this morning, he has been thinking of their touch, and wanting it. Today, he wants it more than almost anything.

Today, he can ask for it.

“Take me,” he requests, again.

Uthvir rushes him.

They move quickly enough that Thenvunin ends up on his legs, though he wouldn’t call it a balanced stance; scooped off the stone and pressed into the wall behind them, not quite standing, most of his weight resting on Uthvir’s arm around his waist as they slip between his thighs, and push him back, and seal a kiss across his lips. Biting and fierce as the sun sets, and the air sparks with desire. So fierce that Thenvunin would not be surprised if a spirit came of it. He is caught; his legs unsteady and the angle strange enough that all he can really do is lean back against the wall, and grind up into Uthvir, and trust them not to drop him.

Their tongue is hot and persistent between his lips. They press it slowly across his own, and something sparks and shoots straight through him from the point of contact. Igniting all the sensitive ends of him, the ones that spent the day craving this. He gasps, and their thigh presses pointedly up against his growing erection.

“Uthvir,” he pants, and clings to them with his free hand.

They curse.

“I was going to take you into the city for dinner,” they say, and laugh, heated and hungry.

“Tomorrow,” Thenvunin manages, as they attack his neck. He loves this outfit; but if it happens to get destroyed tonight, he doesn’t think he would mind so much.

“Hmm. It will have to be,” Uthvir agrees, before sucking a bruise into him. The tingling of his flesh, the warmth of their mouth, is intoxicating; but the position is becoming uncomfortable. He lets out a conflicted breath, and a moment later his hunter is drawing him forward. Getting him so far as the main room inside before Thenvunin stumbles, and they catch him, and then bear him down to the floor.

They settle on top of him, and pin his wrists. The floor is hard and cool against his back, and they are a like a wave of heat at his front. He expects the fiery kiss they treat him to. His hips twist upwards as they pin him between their thighs, and they nip his bottom lip. So sharp and sure and intent in their every move.

But then they pull back, just a little, and kiss him more softly. Drawing it out, as their thumbs brush the sides of his wrists, and they rock into him just slightly.

“My heart,” they purr. “What did you think of? What did you wish for, today? Or shall I guess?”

Thenvunin swallows, and truly hesitates for the first time so far, this evening.  _Your mouth_  is the answer that springs to him. And he thinks they would like that answer, and he isn’t even worried about their inevitable smug satisfaction. That ship has already sailed. But…

He doesn’t ask them to use their mouth on him.

He prefers it to be their idea.

“Guess,” he decides, instead. He doubts they’ll come up with an answer he won’t like, right now; and if they do… then he can stop them. Because they  _will_  stop.

Uthvir grins at him.

“As you like,” they agree, readily. Gaze hooded.  “I wonder… did you think of this…?” Their words are a whisper at the corner of his mouth, before they draw their mouth up towards his right ear. Lips closing around his earlobe. The points of their teeth press into his sensitive skin, and then they drag them slooowly up towards the top of his ear. His nerves tingle. Their breath hot as they suck the tip into their mouth, in a blatant mimicry of other acts. He presses against their hold on him, but they’ve got him securely pinned. They aren’t even touching him that much, and yet…

“Beloved,” they hum, and he sucks in a breath. It’s shocking, sometimes, what that does to him. They shift around a little, pressing their hips down to where he’s straining the front of his pants. The pressure a sweet torture that he twists up into, wanting, his own teeth capturing his bottom lip. A whimper escapes him, and earns a pleased sound in return.

Clothes.

They’re wearing too much clothing.

Far, far too much. Hideously inappropriate of them, really.

“Uthvir,” he breathes.

Anything further gets swallowed up in a kiss, and another downward press of their hips, though. The arousal in the air rising to the point where Thenvunin honestly can’t tell which of them is getting more worked up. A moan escapes him, this time. Trembling out as he presses up into them and just tries to get  _more._  He wants more, so much more. There’s a raw corner on his heart and it is aching, bleeding, begging for something he can’t articulate, but gets a little closer to when they’re so near.

He knows what it is. What it probably is. But still.

“Or maybe you thought of  _this…”_  they whisper, and shift themselves further down him. Pressing their lips to the exposed skin of his collarbone, and then their teeth. The bite burns. It doesn’t really hurt. Their teeth are sharp enough that for the first few seconds, it just feels like a strange itch more than anything. And then his blood warms, and they lick up the welling droplets, and Thenvunin can  _feel_  so much. The textures of their tongue, and every place where they are pressed to him. The grain on the floor at his back, pressing through his layers.

Uthvir looks up at him, pure wickedness in their grin.

“Or perhaps I should simply cover as many bases as I can…” they suggest, and their kiss to his bite mark sparks against him. firm but stirring, magic thickening the air and speeding his heart, until it feels like their hands are everywhere on him. Echoes of other touches they’ve given him brought to the fore, as he feels their fingernails on his back – impossible, it’s pressed to the floor – and their hands on his thighs, and his wrists. Their mouth on his hips, and his nipples, and collarbone.  Their tongue pressing between his lips, and working its way inside of him.

He gasps, and writhes, twisting beneath them. Not even certain of what he’s trying to get to, now, except that he wants it.

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes. “Uthvir-!”

Their hips press down again, and their actual mouth closes over his own. Steals his gasps and devours him, it feels like. His hips buck and their magic thrums, and  _hums,_  and his whole body is like a lit match as he comes all at once. His vision whiting out; hands flexing, whole body straining but Uthvir holds him fast, even as he spirals away.

As the light recedes from his vision, they free him from their kisses to let him draw in several ragged, wrecked breaths.

He’s still in his damn  _clothes._

Uthvir rocks against him again, happily molesting the base of his neck.

“I know something you probably  _didn’t_  think of,” they purr, running their thumbs down the sides of his wrists.

“O-oh?” Thenvunin manages, breathlessly.

“Mmhmm,” they say, and whisper. Magical bonds move to hold his wrists in place of their hands, as they make their way down his body. Pausing to kiss the bite mark again, before carrying determinedly southward on his person. He has no idea what they mean, though; they have certainly done  _this_  plenty of times, he thinks, as Uthvir finally unfastens his belt, and drags their tongue down the soft skin of his navel. He twists a little; as much to move into their touch as to alleviate some of the growing discomfort of the mess they’ve just made.

Uthvir glances up at him, and holds his gaze.

“I am going to make you hard again,” they say.

Well,  _obviously,_  at this rate. His hunter clutches his hips, and Thenvunin’s confusion must show, because they see fit to clarify. In between pressing kisses to his freshly exposed skin.

“I am going to use magic,” they say. “Remember your safe word?”

Thenvunin nods, understanding dawning just as Uthvir whispers again. And then he feels a strange  _rush._  His blood surging, the ragged ends of his completion giving way to a fresh tide of arousal, the sensation more strange than anything at first. His skin tingles and his cock presses at the confines of his underclothes, and his sensitive flesh throbs in time with his pulse.

And then a fierce rush of lust just crashes right through him. Enough that for an instant his mind is a complete blank. His world narrowing down to that hunger, that need. His magic dissolves the bonds on his wrists, and he thrusts clumsily against Uthvir. Reaching for them, clutching them until sense bleeds back a moment later, and he can think past the haze of desire again. He shudders a bit, and blinks. His wrists are stinging, a little. His hands grasping the harsh planes of Uthvir’s armour, and they look just the tiniest bit startled, too. Suddenly lying on his chest again, rather than perched at his abdomen.

They brush a hand across his cheek.

“Alright?” they ask him.

He’s so aroused he doesn’t know what to do with himself. But yes, he thinks. He’s alright. He manages a shaky nod, and Uthvir curls their hands over his shoulders, and leans in, and kisses him. Just softly. A ground sensation that gives him something else to focus on for several seconds.

When they pull back, he pats at one of the uncomfortable planes of their armour.

“Naked,” he manages, intelligibly. “Softer now. Please.”

Their gaze certainly softens. Even if it doesn’t lose any of its heat.

“Of course,” they say. And then they climb off of him, and before he can even finish registering his conflictingly negative sentiments towards them moving some distance from him, they scoop him up off the floor. His erection throbs, and he shivers as the air hits his open pants. He wraps his arms around them and sates himself with moving his own lips against the shell of their ear. Whispering incoherent endearments to them.

“My Uthvir,” he breathes, and their steps falter, just a little. Their grip tightening on him for a moment.

“…Yours,” they agree.

Thenvunin sucks in another breath, and lets it out again. And by the time Uthvir actually gets him to his room, he is feeling coherent enough to be just the tiniest bit self-conscious about it all again. They settle him onto the bed, and he sits for a minute. Trying to catch his breath; aroused and dishevelled, as he listens to the familiar  _click_  of Uthvir undoing the catches on their armour. He makes some effort at disrobing himself. His outfit is entirely open and askew, but surprisingly untorn, at least. His hands are clumsy, though; trembling just a little with the odd echoes of their frantic preliminaries.

He is still at the endeavour when the mattress dips, and Uthvir comes up alongside him. Not naked, not yet; but stripped down to their softer layers. They push his hair aside and kiss his cheek, before they help him get out of his sleeves. It goes much faster, then. Kisses and caresses, ragged breaths eating up the silence, along with the swishing slide of fabric. When Thenvunin finally comes free of his pants, Uthvir pulls him backwards into their lap.

Their mouth lands on the back of his shoulder, but the burn of a bite doesn’t come. Their hand curls around the heated skin of his erection, and he lets himself go boneless against them. Tilting his head back to offer his neck, and clutching at the bed sheets as they hold him possessively near. Their chest against his back; their teeth at his throat.

“ _Mine,”_  they whisper.

Their grip on him tightens, just a little, and Thenvunin’s belly fills with fiery butterflies. His hips buck into their hand. His breath catches. He’s going to come again. He’s going to come again, and they haven’t even-

They stroke him more determinedly, and Thenvunin curses as he’s swept away for a second time. Shuddering, almost aching, now, as he spills his seed, and a cry flies out of him. His hands move from the sheets to try and reach for Uthvir, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as the arousal in the air burns all the sweeter, and their nails press into his hips just hard enough to draw a few beads to blood. The spark of pain grounding the near-terrifying rush of pleasure, so heady in the wake of their magic. In the midst of all his ignited blood.

He sags against them. Breathless again.

“Thenvunin?” they ask.

He can’t quite manage an answer. After a moment, they pull him down towards the pillows. Cool, soothing pillows. Warm, steady arms. He can feel their own interest pressing up against him, but he needs a reprieve, he thinks. He can’t quite articulate it; but perhaps is inarticulate state is message enough. Uthvir rocks against him a few times, but mostly they just hold him, and whisper sweet words, and some lascivious ones, and move their hands in long, soothing strokes. Up and down his thigh; up and down his chest.

“Your hair is all in my face, beloved,” they inform him, wryly, after a few minutes.

Thenvunin makes a noise of protest. There is not so much of it now, really, and they seem to like it well enough when they are running their fingers through it. They have just all but literally ravished him senseless. If they don’t care for hair in their face,  _they_  can move. He grumbles, but manages to roll around, even so. Facing them instead, and oh, that’s better. He gets his arms around them, and slips a leg between theirs, and buries his own face in  _their_  hair. Which smells like sunlight and sweat. Which he can appreciate, and not make smart comments about.

“Give me a moment,” he at last manages to ask.

They nod against him, simply, and resume their long, soothing strokes. He brings his thigh up a bit, and offers them some more friction. Mindful of their own state, even if they seem content to overlook it in favour of petting him.

“You can come on my thigh,” he offers. He is so sated and so caught up this nearness that he cannot even manage to blush.

Uthvir chuckles.

“Tempting as your thighs are, I know where I’d rather spend myself,” they tell him, and he almost complains at the fresh spark of interest that insistently renews itself within him. That embarrassing part of himself that just thinks it is the very best idea to have them inside of him. A sound betrays him, and he feels Uthvir’s lips curl into a smile against his shoulder; and then they worry their teeth just gently over his skin.

“Insatiable,” he accuses. He’s not sure who he’s accusing right now, and his lips are loose and lax enough that the word comes out more fond than anything.

Uthvir hums in agreement.

“Let me know when you’re ready. Or if you would rather not,” they ask.

He sighs. They’re going to be at this all night, he can tell. What a tragedy.

“I will,” he promises. But even just for now he has exactly what he wants, really. He curls his arms a little more firmly around them, and slips a hand up underneath the flimsy fabric of their undershirt. Venturing careful touches around the map of their scars. When they make no move to stop him, he pays some special attention to the places that have been getting softer. Bit by gradual bit. The edges where once-rigid, marred flesh has gained some malleability. Some better feeling, he thinks, too. They have not said as much; but when he presses his thumb here and the tips of his index finger there, they shiver, and close their mouth across his shoulder. Not biting. Just… knowing that they  _can,_  he thinks.

Their hips rock into him.

“I have an idea,” he ventures, after a few minutes.

Uthvir shifts their mouth on him and kisses him, before shifting back enough to look at him.

“Am I going to have to change shape for it?” they ask.

He shakes his head.

“Stay just as you are,” he asks. “And touch me as you will. But I want to…” he trails off, warring with a troubling surge of self-consciousness. He wants. He does. He knows what he wants. His mind still skirts around it a little, though, and his tongue trips itself up in trying to spit it out. Uthvir waits. Trailing a nail across his chest, and then brushing a hand over his jaw. He swallows, still struggling, and they pull him in for another kiss.

“Shall I guess?” they suggest. “And you just say ‘yes’, or ‘no’, beloved?”

He sighs, and murmurs and agreement. Their free hand settles at the base of his back. Warm, almost protective.

“Do you want me to tie you up?” they ask.

“No,” he says. There are days when he does and days when he doesn’t, and while this would not be a day where it  _unsettled_  him, that is not what he wants.

“Hmm. Let you inside of me?” they suggest.

“No,” he says, more firmly. Not that he objects to being inside of them, but he is not a fool. Uthvir has done all manner of things to him; but he notices what they have not done, too. And he won’t ask for it. He knows he would try and give them almost anything  _they_  asked for, now. He knows that feeling, that gut-churning fear, that… that not doing it will disappoint the one you love. Drive them away.

He won’t ask for what they won’t offer.

Uthvir looks at him again, and something sparks in their gaze.

“Do you want to be on top…?” they suggest.

His cheeks  _flame,_  and his stomach flips, and he wonders how they managed it on the third guess. He fights the urge to hide his face long enough to nod, and then Uthvir kisses him so thoroughly he almost forgets why he wants to. Smirking against him, and murmuring praises, before they roll him over again. He hears them clatter with the bedside table, and the expectation in him is a growing flame that eats away at his satiation. Bit by bit. That relentless beast.

“Beautiful,” they say, and kiss his hip. Their hand kneading his thigh for a moment, before slide a slick finger down his spine, and urge him onto his stomach.

They could have him just like this, too, he thinks. That would also be fine.

“Let me get you ready,” they whisper, and he groans, and takes advantage of the new position to bury his face into his pillow. A brush of fabric passes over the skin of his backside, and he almost whimpers. Oh,  _no._  They cannot possibly… if they do  _that_  he will not be able to move until dawn, his bones will turn to jelly…

But then the sensation passes, and he feels only the probing glide of their fingers. Not that  _that_  is any less scintillating, of course. He trembles a little as they kiss his hip again, and tease their touch over him. Dipping it down towards other sensitive patches of skin, before slowly working more and more slick, sweet touches across entrance.

“I am so hungry for you, my heart,” they whisper, as they finally work a finger into him. Thenvunin lets out another sound, aching at the way their touch turns inside of him. Adding more and more oil, bit by bit; pressing against his inner walls, and tracing over the fluttering muscles there. He tightens around their fingers, a few times, and they nip the skin of one of his cheeks. Smirking and all but purring against him. Their touch flexes inside of him, brushing that spot that makes his cock twitch and sends a rush of pleasure twisting up his belly. And then they press it again, and again, until he is straining against the bedsheets and letting out a ragged stream of breaths.

“Uthvir!” he protests, without even knowing what he is protesting.

All at once, though, they withdraw.

Fingers sliding out of him and obscene sound. Lips pulling away from his skin. He blinks, and bites back another, more obviously motivated sort of complaint. Their hand settles at his lower back again, though. And they kiss his shoulder, instead; even as other parts of his body ache to have their attention back.

“Still want to?” they ask.

Does he?

He hesitates. Considers. It would be fine another way, too. He could just lie back, and they would both be sated and pleased and close at the end of it. But he wants… he  _wants…_ Uthvir’s eyes on him. Their hands on his hips. His cock on their stomach, theirs buried inside of him. Him, setting the pace. Touching their skin. Giving them pleasure and commanding his own.

Yes, he thinks.

He wants to.

“Lay down?” he asks.

Uthvir hums in agreement. Their fingers trail over him before they turn, and settle onto the sheets. Thenvunin swallows, and rolls over himself. Wincing a moment at how slick and heated he feels, oil dripping between his cheeks, running down his thighs.

How much did they  _use?_

“Uthvir,” he huffs. “Did you dump the whole bottle into me?”

They shrug, smirking.

“You didn’t seem to mind,” they say, and in fact, when he looks over, the bottle is actually empty. He is uncertain if it was full before they started; but it will definitely require replacing  _now._  For some reason he feels an odd surge of fondness, though, as he looks at Uthvir; still smirking, lying back against the pillows. Their hair is all askew, and the rest of their clothes seem to have vanished at some point. His breath hitches at the sight of all their skin.

Oh.

“Will this be alright for you?” he checks, as he reaches for them.

“I am eager for it,” they assure him, and he can see  _that,_  too, at least.

Uthvir’s parts are very beautiful. None of their limbs are disproportionately long, and this one is no exception. But their soft skin is captivating, in some ways. Thenvunin reaches for them. Brushing a hand gently over them, until they shiver, and rather pointedly tilt their head back. Baring their throat.

_Oh._

Thenvunin kisses it, and brushes their cheek, before he climbs over them. His nerves spike as he tries to figure out the position. He’s been on top before, but, normally when he is strung up in some fashion, and Uthvir is doing all the work. He knows how it should feel, though. Uthvir moves their hands to his hips, but they don’t do anything more than that. Don’t hurry him, even though their arousal must be maddening by now. He strokes them again as he lifts himself up, and then carefully starts to sink onto them. Easing his way down, as they stretch him open, and their nails dig into him a little bit again.

A single, pointed tooth catches against their bottom lip.

And then he is more or less sitting on them. His hands on their chest; his cock brushing the soft skin of their abdomen. Filled up with them, and even though they are not brushing that spot inside of him, still it feels so good. He sighs, and trails his hands down their chest, as they look up at him with a hooded gaze.

“Thenvunin,” they purr.

He moves.

It takes more coordination than he had thought, to be in charge of this. They slip out of him a few times, and he has to line them back up. But he has always been partial to this view, and it is best, he thinks, so beautiful, when they are like this. When they are naked and reaching for him, whispering his name, coaxing and praising and also caught up in  _his_  movements.  _His_  choices. He presses down firmly against them, and his muscles flutter, and they gasp. He brushes his fingers across the sensitive skin of their nipples, and the arousal in the air surges. He presses palm flat against their ribs, and he understands, he thinks, why they like being in control so much. It’s not only that it’s safe. It’s not only that it lets them do whatever feels good.

It is  _beautiful_ , to take action and watch it please them.

But it is also difficult, and before either of them comes a twisting anxiousness starts to make itself known; spiralling out from him. Uthvir closes a hand over his length, and strokes him. And then takes his hips, and holds him a little more firmly; guiding more of his movements, until he swallows, and catches their eye; opens his mouth but fails to voice a barely-realized thought, and then just feels a well of gratitude as they shift him off of them, and press him to the mattress in turn.

“I have you,” they say, sinking back into him.

He wraps his legs around them, and settles his hands on their shoulders. And he lets them finish things, with little room for self-recrimination as they thrust into him, and coax a third orgasm from him. This one like the last clap of thunder in a manic storm; bursting and bright, and leaving him an exhausted wreck in its wake. Uthvir finishes inside of him, and pulls out to lie on top of him. Panting and pleased. They trail sloppy kisses across his jaw, as he nuzzles at the top of their head, and runs a hand back and forth across one of their arms.

He feels well-loved and messy, utterly inappropriate, and wholly satisfied.

So many things he never thought he could be at once.

“I love you,” he says.

Uthvir hums, and strokes a hand across his stomach, and mouths at the bite mark on his collar.

“I love you, as well,” they promise. Closing their eyes a moment, and letting out a long, deep breath. Thenvunin threads his fingers into their hair, until he feels like he might be able to successfully make it to the bathroom.

“We should clean up,” he murmurs.

Uthvir hums once more. Vague agreement, with no obvious intention of moving. Thenvunin smiles.

“Then we can get messy again,” he suggests.

There is a pause.

Uthvir hefts themselves up, and raises their eyebrows at him. Their lips quirk.

“Really, now,” they say.

Thenvunin brushes their cheek.

“I think I want to try a few more suggestions,” he says.

“Insatiable,” Uthvir tuts. And then, to his pleasant surprise, they laugh. Real and warm, with none of their usual hiss or chuckle. Just a happy sound, that makes all the bright features of their face shine, and robs Thenvunin of thought as surely as his recent orgasms had. He blinks at them.

They kiss him.

“Bath?” they suppose.

“When I am certain my knees will hold out,” Thenvunin confirms. Which, of course, turns them all smug.

“I hope you have a clear schedule tomorrow,” they say.

At this rate, he thinks, he might actually need one.


	10. Chapter 10

Uthvir finds it in the front of a tailor’s workshop, on one of their visits to Arlathan.

A discarded commission, by the looks of it. Something which had not pleased its original buyer well enough, but had satisfied its crafter’s pride or strained their resources to the point that they had been unwilling to simply discard it. There are a few such items here and there, especially in the workshops leading down towards the lower city. The tailor is not a renowned one, by all appearances; likely, the material cost of the commission had been dear, and the rejection doubly taxing.

But it makes them think of Thenvunin, immediately.

It is gold; or more yellow in some places, they think. The robe shimmers like a sunset, with sweeping feather patterns along the back, and golden leaves stitched delicately across red-trim borders. It is flowing, and large, and it brings to mind long-ago days, when they would have raised an eyebrow at so much colour and softness. They spy it through a window, and walk into the shop precisely for it. Pausing to finger the soft, shimmering fabric, and assess the sizing.

“Can I help you…? Oh.”

Uthvir turns, and finds themselves faced with the likely owner of the workshop. A small elf, reedy and uncertain-looking, as their gaze skirts over Uthvir’s armour and markings. Assessing, and drawing a swift conclusion. Tailors usually are good at placing rank.

The elf bows, politely.

“Forgive me, revered Sentinel,” he says. “It is not often that an elf of your rank graces my shop, I did not mean to interrupt your perusal.”

Uthvir inclines their head, and then looks back at the robe they had been examining.

“An elf of  _some_  station must have graced it at least once, to merit this creation,” they reason. That shade of red, in particular, is not something a lower-ranking crafter would be able to acquire without some leave. The man’s mouth twists, likely biting back some sort of sigh or other comment that would be unsuitable for lofty ears.

“Ah, yes. Well. That project was not one of my finest, in terms of matching the piece to its expectant owner. I fear I misread some of the seasonal cues, to my great shame. But the piece itself is exquisite, I assure you – and it represents a good example of my skill, if not my judgement,” he allows, obviously skirting around the matter as best as he can. Uthvir reads between the lines – fickleness, more than anything, had seen the commission dismissed. Or perhaps some personal slight. Petty revenge. They let their gaze wander to a few more pieces in the shop front. No real leather work or heavy things. More fluttery, flowing fabrics, and a few clever designs that seem to be utilizing the restrictions of the lower ranks to their utmost.

They pause, spying a few items that they might have procured for Thenvunin even during the worst of his service under Andruil. Clever bands of colour and mixes of dyes that make humble fabrics and shades look a little more vibrant than usual.

The man would be popular among Mana’Din’s followers, Uthvir thinks. They make a mental note to recommend him to some of the merchants – provided all goes well, anyway. Then they turn their gaze back to the piece that had first caught their attention.

“I wish to purchase it,” they decide.

The tailor hesitates, a moment.

“Wonderful! Though it may be a little large for your current frame…” he begins.

Uthvir chuckles.

“I would not be wearing it,” they say. “But my beloved might be pleased by it. I have his measurements, give me a moment…”

They pause to pull their list of reminders from the pocket inside of their gauntlet, and find the relevant information in short order. The tailor looks somewhat relieved by their clarification. Uthvir imagines that refitting this piece for  _them_  would have required some care, and no small loss of materials in the process. Thenvunin is, as they guessed, a better fit. The tailor makes a little noise over shortening it, as apparently the original commissioner was taller, but they are not fooled by his few tentative attempts to imply that this should be time-consuming or overly difficult.

The tailor does not try very hard to fleece them, however. He seems too pleased over having the sale to manage it.

“Clothes should be worn,” he asserts. “Especially fine, lovely things. I hope your heart enjoys the gift. Gift commissions are my favourite to do. Particularly for courtships. Most of the work I do is for the Entertainment District, you see. Costumes and suchlike. Not that I don’t enjoy it, because I do, but it is very nice to think of items being worn in for a genuine regard, and not as part of a façade. If that makes sense. I am babbling, I fear, but still, I can always clear a spot on my commissions roster for a romantic in need.”

Uthvir finds the babble amusing, as a matter of fact. The man drifts into it a few more times in the process of explaining that the alterations should be done by the evening, and trying to interest Uthvir in several scarves and other items that would go well with the robe.

As it happens, the items actually  _would_  suit, so Uthvir also leaves with three scarves, an extra belt sash, and some skimpy, silky underthings. They are pleased enough with the gift, and the discovery of the tailor. Though when they return to Mana’Din’s lands, to Daran and the palace and the welcome of Thenvunin and Lavellan, they take a few hours to simply be there. Revelling in the feeling of the place. The odd security and tranquility that persists in it, even despite the comparative chaos of the territory.

It is the next day, in fact, that they present Thenvunin with his gift. In the morning, as he is going over his options for the morning’s outfit.

“I have a suggestion,” they offer. And they retrieve the box containing the robe, and its accessories, from their room. They present it to him with a flourish, and watch his eyes light up in realization.

He smiles, and opens the box. The accessories are on top, so at first Uthvir gets to listen to him enthuse over the scarves, and sash, and then blush at the underthings. Thenvunin unfolds them, and then hastily re-folds them, cheeks pink as he gives them a  _look._

“What?” they ask. “It is a full outfit. I hope you do not imagine I had  _lascivious_  intentions in buying you comfortable, necessary articles of clothing to go with it. One might even venture that neglecting to include undergarments would be far more provocative.”

The  _look_  persists.

A smirk curls their lips.

“Really, Thenvunin,” they tut.

“Don’t you ‘really, Thenvunin’ me,” their beloved replies, clearing his throat as he squares away the small parcels. “I know you well enough to know  _exactly_  what…”

He trails off, as he peels back the first protective covering around the main garment, and his eyes light upon the fabric. Uthvir’s smirk turns into an unabashed grin as Thenvunin runs a hand over the robe. The folds displaying, from this angle, only the outline of a feather pattern, and a line of embroidered crimson. He pulls it from the box with care, his breath caught; unfurling it like a cascade of sunshine straight from his hands.

For several moments, he is quiet.

Long enough to make Uthvir wonder if they erred. If, perhaps, this is too much like some things which Thenvunin would rather leave in the past.

“Oh, it is  _beautiful,”_  he breathes, and their unease abates.

“Mm. Almost beautiful enough to do you credit,” they agree, and Thenvunin’s pink cheeks turn scarlet, and he clears his throat as he drapes the garment carefully over his changing partition. Then he turns, and dips down, and kisses Uthvir. Quick and a little flustered. They catch his cheek, and pull him in again to deepen it, as they trail on hand up into his hair. The other slides across the flimsy fabric of his nightshirt.

Thenvunin sighs against their lips.

“You were gone too long,” he asserts.

“Was I?” Uthvir wonders, moving their kisses to his neck.

“For this instance,” Thenvunin insists. He settles his own hand at their hips, and leans into their touches. After a few minutes they pull back a little, though. Worried at how pliant he is; how free his admissions are. The air around them feels warm and easy, though, and when they look at his face, he seems only to be in a particularly affectionate mood.

They make a mental note to buy him more shimmering, shining robes, when they can.

“Perhaps you should forget dressing, for the time being,” they suggest.

He huffs at them.

“I have much too much to do today,” he insists.

“Pity,” Uthvir bemoans. They move to let him go, and blink in surprise as his hands land upon their shoulders, and he leans in to steal yet another kiss before moving back himself.

Definitely, they think. Definitely, they will buy him more shimmering, shining robes. The thought solidifies even further when he disappears behind his changing partition, and dresses, and emerges looking like the best parts of a city summer morning. The robe falls beautifully around him; complimenting his outline without obscuring it, draping around his legs and parting to reveal just the faintest hints of skin. Tantalizing without being necessarily provocative or inappropriate. It is not formal wear, of course. The robe, though very fine, is clearly meant for casual settings, but for a day’s work in the palace it is more than sufficient.

Thenvunin frowns at his own reflection.

Only for a moment.

Then he nods, and his expression gradually shifts to one of overall satisfaction.

“I think I will wear my hair up,” he decides.

“Shall I help you?” Uthvir wonders.

“If you like.”

They agree, easily, and indulge themselves in trailing their fingers across his scalp, before helping to carefully work a soft styling cream into it, and secure it with glittering citrine pins on the top of his head. The end result is not entirely what they might have expected when they purchased the robe. Thenvunin does not look… well. They suppose he will never look like his other self, in some ways. His bearing and countenance, and how he simply wears things, now, has changed.

He is breathtakingly lovely.

“Which set of underthings did you choose?” Uthvir asks, whispering into his ear after they secure the last pink.

Thenvunin glances back at them, and raises his eyebrows.

“I suspect you will find out, before the day is done,” he tells them.

And this is  _all_  he will tell them, to their delight, as he goes and selects a few of the scarves to finish his look. Uthvir has to set out themselves, then. Not to strenuous tasks, at least, but they have to check in on the training of their apprentices, and there are reports and updates to go through that would have been too sensitive to be forwarded to them in Arlathan. There are some outposts they must check-in with as well, and a good chunk of the afternoon set aside for helping several hunters in one of the nearer villages.

It is strange to think, how many they have trained by now. That the vast majority of them all have learned from Uthvir’s own skills.

Lavellan greets them at breakfast, and comes with them for many of their duties. It makes things feel much calmer, when she is at hand; though there is also a voice, lingering in Fear’s perception, that holds hints of recollected unease.  _Where is Thenvunin?_  But they know where he is, and that he is safe, and so it is only a faint, habitual tremor. Lavellan discusses several reports with them, and updates them personally on the situation in several parts of the territory.

Uthvir does not feel entirely at home until the afternoon comes, however. After he has handled some matters with the regional hunters, and Mana’Din calls for a meeting to discuss some trade issues. They are present for that, and so is Lavellan, and so is Thenvunin. Thenvunin, who is still wearing his new outfit. Who looks lovely and very pleased with himself, and has changed scarves and let his hair down again, and receives no small number of compliments when the meeting breaks for refreshments.

“You look exceptional, Thenerassan,” Sulhamin, one of Mana’Din’s more decent military advisors, observes. “Who’s work is that?”

“I could not say,” Thenvunin admits. “The outfit was a gift from Uthvir.”

“Shock of all shocks,” Sulhamin murmurs.

Uthvir interjects, then, stepping up alongside Thenvunin and seizing the opening to describe the tailor they happened upon. Only a few in the meeting’s crowd seem interested, but several agree that it could be useful information to pass along to those who venture regularly into the city. Particularly those of lower stations; Mana’Din does not enforce nearly so many appearance restrictions as the other evanuris, but such laws still apply in Arlathan, and it can it make things awkward for those who must scramble to find appropriate and attractive city wear.

When the meeting is finally done, so are both Thenvunin and Uthvir’s duties for the day. They head into the city for dinner, along with Lavellan; Thenvunin’s sleeves fluttering, his outfit suiting the sunset as they make their way to one of the private eating establishments in the city’s central quarter, and indulge in more elaborate fare than is offered in the free dining halls. Or at least, Uthvir and Thenvunin do. Lavellan happily orders a simple stew bowl for herself, from a blush-prone server who has developed a habit of trying to find other foods she will like.

“Quail eggs?” the server tries.

“Stew,” Lavellan replies, but with good humour, rather than annoyance.

“Pickled tanglevine in a red wine sauce?” the young woman persists.

“Stew,” Lavellan insists, her lips twitching.

“Spice-roasted apples with venison jelly on the side?”

“No. Just stew,” Lavellan repeats, with finality, and a wink. The server finally gives up.

Their daughter turns back towards them, then, as their table gains some privacy. Uthvir remembers when she was younger, and they would often set out into the city to acquire treats, and bring them back home for everyone to eat in the garden, or sitting room. They are glad that things have become easy enough, now, that being in public is not a burden; but perhaps sometimes soon, they should indulge in that same quiet privacy again, too. It has been harder to make time for it, since Lavellan has grown older and more accomplished.

“You look beautiful, Papa,” Lavellan declares, drawing their attention back into the ‘now’.  “Nanae outdid themselves this time.”

Thenvunin smiles.

“I have received so many compliments today, I feel as though I should write an acknowledgement to the tailor,” he says.

“The tailor’s work is very fine, but the mannequin did not do it nearly the same justice you do,” Uthvir informs him, as a matter of fact. Lavellan rolls her eyes at them, and Thenvunin’s cheeks pink, just faintly, before he changes the subject to the recent attempts at managing better environmental charms for larger settlements. Not something many of them have an in-depth knowledge of, but a relevant topic, they suppose, in terms of what kind of exotic birds might be suitably housed at various residences. Lavellan brings up some interesting tidbits of her own past week.

Outside, the sunset lingers, as it tends to do at this time of year. A long, slow burn, that whirls through the colours of the sky and casts warm fingers of light through the nearby windows. Uthvir shares some of their news from the city.

By the time they head home, they are feeling quite settled. Lavellan has some more tasks she wishes to attend before calling it a day, so she sets out to those. Uthvir links their arm with Thenvunin’s, and takes him home. Through winding, soft-paved streets, and back up to the palace, and their chambers. The mood is such that Uthvir finds themselves inclined to actually slip into their more comfortable clothes; a loose shirt and pants, soft enough to make them feel unburdened, without being so light as to leave them exposed.

Thenvunin heads into the garden to check on his birds, and replenish the feeders, and let Screecher bring him… seashells.

Where on earth did that abomination find  _seashells?_

Perhaps it’s better not to know, Uthvir thinks, as Thenvunin grooms his hopelessly devoted bird, and gets much the same treatment back. Screecher fusses over his hair, and pulls the collar of his robe askew, and makes its typical shrieking and chirping noises before finally heading off back to its nest. Leaving Thenvunin to stand next to the newest garden tree, for a moment; the askew robe slipping off of his shoulder, now. His face turned up towards the sky.

Uthvir prowls over to him. Intent, nearly mesmerized, as they feel like something is tugging them closer. Like a gentle hook behind their heart. They slide their hands around him from behind, and begin toying with the sash on his robe.

“You really do look lovely,” they say.

One of Thenvunin’s hands folds over top of their own. His fingers trailing across theirs; drawing slowly lines towards the pointed tips of their nails.

“I will have to get you something in return,” he replies. “Perhaps another nightshirt?”

His newest fixation, Uthvir notes. Finding them clothes to sleep in that are exceptionally comfortable, without subsequently making Uthvir  _un_ comfortable. They hum in nonchalant agreement, and silently urge him to turn around. The nightshirts are… alright, they suppose. If only because they seem to have led to a new trend of Thenvunin slipping his hands under them whenever he gets cuddly.

Speaking of…

Uthvir leans in and steals a kiss, and plucks away at the robe’s sash. Pulling it loose, and then tossing it rather pointedly aside. They move their lips to Thenvunin’s neck. Trailing them across the soft skin there, and before sliding their own hands beneath the open folds of his robe, and nipping him playfully. When he brings his arms around them in return, they setting up sucking a bruise into the sensitive pulse point there.

“I have been wondering which undergarments you chose this morning,” they tell him. “So cruel of you, to leave me guessing.”

Thenvunin shifts in their arms, and his breath hitches as they trail their teeth across the skin they had been busily molesting.

“It was an inappropriate question,” he informs them. If he was angling to sound disapproving, however, he does not succeed.

They grin, and with very little effort, manage to pull him down onto the softest patch of garden grass.

“I suppose I had best investigate it myself, then,” they determine, and grin at the rising colour in his face. The heightened arousal in the air.

“Much more appropriate,” he murmurs.

They take their time at it now, though. Drawing out the game, as they venture a few guesses, and pause to appreciate the bared skin of his chest. Thenvunin’s own hands wander with uncommon freedom, for an evening tryst; sliding up under the hem of their shirt, and sinking into their hair. He curls around them, pulling them so that they are entwined with him even as they lie on top of him, and then he presses a kiss to their temple.

The air between them changes. Uthvir’s heart skips a beat, though they cannot quite say why. There is nothing exceptional to this moment, to their actions, to their intimacy. They have done similar things hundreds of times, by now. Everything is warm, and reassuring. Scintillating, but safe.

“We should get married,” Thenvunin whispers.

Time stops.

Or at least, that is how it feels. Uthvir’s heart stops, and their breath stops; and Fear rears as if struck, surging up in them and yet pulling back at once, too, until the shadows of the garden seem to shift instantly to night. Thenvunin’s fingers are warm points of gentle pressure against their scalp, and their hip. They can feel his pulse, thrumming beneath them. Alive and vital, beautiful, and they know they are terrified, and they also know that they cannot afford to be. He is so close.

They will hurt him, if they are not careful.

And then Thenvunin lets out a long breath, and shifts around until their foreheads can be pressed together.

“I frightened you,” he says, as time starts moving again.

“No,” Uthvir refutes, immediately. “I just…”

They do not know what to say, they find. They cannot deny him or refuse him. He would think it was his fault, that they were rejecting him, and they never would. But how can they explain that without revealing…?

They swallow.

But Thenvunin is not so fragile in this moment, it seems. His hand strokes up and down their side, and he makes a soothing sound.

“You are Dreaming-born, I know.”

_Not really ever born, in fact._

“Andruil likely never explained this to you, considering how jealously she wished to own you.”

_Well, she **did**  own me, up until she died._

“It is not just that I want to be with you forever. Though I do.”

_Forever is a long time, Thenvunin. It is all of time, potentially._

“You and I already have a bond, to be honest. I have noticed it for… a while. I was not certain how to broach the subject. You do not know how to tell, do you?”

_…What?_

Uthvir looks at him. Wavering; uncertain. A bond? Well, in the casual sense, of course they have one. They have shared a relationship to one another for many, many years now. Uthvir hesitates, and Thenvunin reaches up and brushes back a lock of their hair.

“These things happen between people sometimes,” Thenvunin tells them. “It is not really surprising, when I think of it. We love each other. We have been through a great deal together. Marriage would only formally solidify what is already there; though I suppose we do not have to take that step. Informally, it is already true. Can you feel it?” His hand moves to rest over their heart, and then, at last, Uthvir sees that tremor of uncertainty in his gaze.

It filters into the air.

Or… perhaps, not so much, in fact.

Their heart seems to beat a little faster, as if it wants to reach his touch.

But their perceptiveness of him is born of familiarity, and observation. Years spent learning to read and interpret his cues. They have always been good at such things. And even if they are better at it with Thenvunin than nearly anyone else, except perhaps their daughter, well. They have never been so close to anyone before.

_It is not possible._

Their heart sinks. Falls more than they might have expected, as they realize that they have deceived Thenvunin into believing they have given him something that is beyond them. Something that they would give him, a thousand times over, if they could. And now they will have to choose whether to deepen this deception, or somehow dissuade him of the notion without hurting him. Or hurting him as little as possible.

They hesitate. His warm body beneath them, their own thoughts disjointed.  _Hide._  No, shut up. They need to think. Sort things out into simple steps. Thenvunin thinks they are bonded, as two elves, because Thenvunin thinks they are an elf and they have loved one another for quite some time and they are very close. And he is Thenvunin, so once the notion entered his thoughts then he probably considered marriage, and weddings, and beautiful ceremonies and meaningful gestures and lovely clothing, which are all things he likes.

If they disprove the connection, he may still ask to be married.  _But,_  there is a good chance he will also be embarrassed and hurt, and he may wish for more distance from Uthvir, as well. Neither of those are good outcomes… but they are more easily managed than the truth.

They open their mouth, ready to ask how such a thing might be verified, and Thenvunin presses another kiss to their forehead.

Their breath stalls.

“Can you feel it?” Thenvunin asks again, and something… tugs at them.

Like his fingers across their skin. But not there. Like the brush of his intent through the air; but not  _there,_  either.

Their next exhale leaves them all in a rush.

What…?

Did Fear do this? It has started to cleave to Thenvunin, at times; he is one of the best things in their life, and Fear often wavers between wanting him safe as can be, and wanting him gone so that they will never endanger themselves on his behalf. Of late, as the years have passed, it has edged more towards the former than the latter. Perhaps it would take a step like this, but Uthvir’s partner seems as shocked as they are.

_What does it mean?_

_We are better at pretending than we ever thought?_

Perhaps Thenvunin’s soul is simply so abundant, he has inadvertently loaned them a piece of it. Their hand pressed over his own heart, an irrational worry flitting through them. That it has been chipped off, and hollowed; that they have taken something from him that they cannot repay in kind, yet again.

“I am sorry,” they find themselves saying. “I did not mean to do that to you.”

Thenvunin’s expression falls.

“Is it such a bad idea?” he asks, quietly.

They shake their head.

“No, no – I did not mean it that way,” they reply. Then they draw in a breath. “I am… I… you are precious to me beyond measure. No matter what else may be. Bond or no bond, I would not take something from you without… I would not, I cannot… I am not worthy of you.”

The last sentence slips out, flying loose in a fit of frustration as they struggle, uncommonly, to find words that will express what they must without cutting either of them open.

Thenvunin looks stunned.

Uthvir draws in a breath, and slowly lets it out again. They close their eyes.

Well.

It is true, in many ways.

“I am not worthy of you,” they say, again. More deliberately, as they open their eyes and lock their gaze with his. “I wish I was.”

Thenvunin’s brows furrow, and his hands press them close to him.

“That is, by far, the most ridiculous, absurd untruth that you have ever told me,” he informs them.

“It is not,” they reply. “The most ridiculous, absurd untruth I have ever told you was ‘I just assumed your knowledge of bird care would mean you could give me a few tips on raising a baby’.”

“No, this beats that,” Thenvunin assures them, not even rising to the bait. One of his hands clenches against the fabric of their shirt. “Uthvir. Is… is it her?” he wonders, and they still. “I remember, what she was like. I know I did not live with it for nearly so long, but sometimes her words still creep down my spine. Did she tell you that you were worth so little? She told me that I was worth barely more than my blood. I cannot imagine you are worth any less than that, beloved. Even by  _her_  estimations, we are probably well-matched.”

They go still.

That… sounds like Andruil, they will concede. She had a knack – has, still, in this world – for battering people down to an acceptable level.

_You are little more than animate skin and bones, of course. An illusion made of composite parts._

It is different for them, though. Thenvunin does not know, he thinks that they are Dreaming-born.

They are quiet. Thenvunin holds them, as they lie on the grass. Their proceedings thoroughly interrupted. Perhaps they should have kept with them, they think. Pressed onwards, to banish the thoughts of marriage and bonds from his mind. Pretend that they hadn’t heard his whispered words.

Too late, now.

“It is alright,” he says, at length. “She said such things to you for years and years, didn’t she? When you were new, too. It is alright if you are scared, my heart. We do not have to decide anything right now. We can just be as we are. We can just… feel it. It does not have to mean anything, not worthiness or unworthiness. It can simply be the fact of how pleasant this is. Like touch.”

He moves his hands gently across them again, and Uthvir shivers.

When did the tables turn so thoroughly on them?

Thenvunin’s legs shift, and he tilts, and suddenly Uthvir is the one lying on the grass. The beautiful robe spills around them, as he folds himself overtop of them, and presses soft, slow kisses to their lips. Their own hands press against his chest; the air suffused with his affections.

They should do something, the think. They know. But after one kiss becomes two, and then three, it becomes much easier to simply do as suggested, in fact. They lie back and brush their fingers across a lovebite on his chest, and kiss him back. Simple, soft. Grounding. They know this, they think. They have done it to him often enough. Pull back from the situation, and reduce everything to simple, manageable packets of material. A kiss; a touch. Overwhelming sensations and emotions contained by patient repetition and careful reassurance.

They feel almost wry to have need of it.

But they remember, too. They remember, back when they were young. When Fear was new, and before it even existed. When Glory lived in Falon’Din’s chains.  _Ground yourself._  They do not realize how fast their heart was beating until it begins to slow again.

Were they panicking?

They think they might have been on the cusp of it, at least.

Thenvunin kisses them again, and then pulls back and nuzzles their cheek.

“I have you,” he says.

They let out a long breath.

“So you do,” they agree. “Thenvunin…”

He shushes them.

“We can leave it be,” he says. “I should not have forwarded it so abruptly. It does not change anything, Uthvir. Or at least, it need not. I am not asking you for more, or offering it, in fact. It is simply an observation of what it already there. But I did not mean to frighten or distress you. I understand, you know. You are patient with my wounds. I will not show you an ounce less courtesy, my heart, I swear it.”

“Thenvunin…” they start again, and then sigh.

_Brilliant response._

He leans back to look them in the eye.

“Your scars do not deter me. None of them,” he promises.

They close their eyes.

 _Not scars, this time. Broken things._   _You cannot repair what was never whole, never undamaged to begin with._

“I was born broken, too,” Thenvunin says, and Uthvir’s breath stills. How did he…?

He cannot possibly read their thoughts. That is not how this would work, even if they could participate in such bonds wholeheartedly. Though, they have heard that impressions, that strong cues, can be picked up between couples who…

They swallow.

“Bodies are often more easily repaired than other things,” they say.

“So they say,” Thenvunin agrees, and kisses them again. A low, tentative heat is starting to spread through them once more, at all these gentle attentions. “But such trauma leaves a mark in other ways, too. I did not think it should. But it has been proven many times over, has it not? You and I, and Lavellan. Mana’Din, and the people of these territories. We are all hale and hearty, now, uninjured and physically safe. But how many still carry the chains from the camps? Still wear scars that they have no earthly reason to? My body does not scar, Uthvir, because so many times, it does not even feel like it is mine. And yet, it is difficult for me to change it. I am a stale and simple creature, it seems. Not even able to reap the benefits of a malleable form.”

Uthvir frowns.

“No,” they say. “That is twisted up, and wrong. You are wondrous, and colourful, and brilliant.”

Thenvunin smiles at them.

“My body feels like a prison, sometimes,” he admits.

They feel a rush of visceral grief, and cannot contain the whole of it. Thenvunin stills, and they reach a hand up. Brushing the backs of their fingers across his cheek.

“I am certain it does not mean to,” they whisper.

“No, that is not what bodies are for,” Thenvunin agrees. “But I had little love for mine until you treated it kindly. In so many ways, for so long. You love me and you show me that you do. Let me show you the same.”

“I do not doubt your love,” Uthvir assures him.

They can tell he is stymied, somewhat. He does not know how to comfort them, and they are doing a bad job of concealing their hurts. Because he does not know the truth; because, if he did, it would hurt him further still. What would he think of them, then? That last betrayal? They cannot do that to him. They cannot do that to themselves.

Gently, they push him away. It takes a few seconds for him to catch on. Then he lets them go, even though he seems reluctant to part. Giving them their requested space. His robe is askew and the night air is settling into the garden. The birds have all gone to bed, Uthvir thinks; under normal circumstances, they might expect Thenvunin to worry that they had witnessed far too much ‘indelicate behaviour’. But he is quiet, sitting there in the puddling fabric of his finery.

Uthvir’s gaze trails up and up, and halts at the distant beacons of the stars.

What can they give, in return for even just the fainted fragment of his soul?

Nothing to compare.

But even so, they do have  _something_.

They swallow, and then lift their hands to the hem of their shirt, and pull it off of themselves. Shivering a little as the air hits their back. They let it drop to the grass, there to join Thenvunin’s belt sash, and draw in a long breath.

It is habit. Centuries worth of it, as they twist and reshape their magic, and form. They brace themselves. Shutting off their fear, first, because that is the most dangerous emotion in them. And then the rest. All of their expression withdrawing from the air, as their wings extend into it. The muscles of their back spasm, a bit. The muscles of their wings twinge, and shake for a moment, before dropping down towards the garden. Scars burning, bones twisting oddly downwards, so that the limbs do not fold around them so much as drag behind them. But they are still whole, and beautiful as any pair the preceded them.

Thenvunin gasps.

Uthvir turns towards him, and offers him a small, reassuring smile. His eyes are huge, and cannot seem to decide where to look – at their face, or their wings, or where said wings are connected to their back. They give him a few moments, and then carefully extend one towards him. Their skin is hot, their stomach twisting up with unnameable things, their back muscles burning and shoulders aching with effort. But the brush of a primary feather to Thenvunin’s shoulder is gentle, and precise.

“You can have them, if you like,” Uthvir offers. “They make beautiful decorations. And you are a more worthy owner than any before.”

Thenvunin goes pale. His mouth opening and closing a few times, before he casts his gaze downwards, and then carefully gets to his feet.

Uthvir watches, from the distance of habitually reserved feelings, as he moves to their side. His gaze at last taking in all the nuances of their wings. Every feather, and turn of them. He circles to their back, and they close their eyes. It will not hurt, they tell themselves, for it to happen one more time. It will not hurt, and he will not ask it of them again, they know. One more cut. Just one, and they have lived through so many; they have come so far. To repay even a fraction of what he has given, it is no trouble at all.

Thenvunin’s hand brushes the base of their left wing.

They can feel his intent. His sorrow, and admiration, and also his determination. He will have them, Uthvir thinks. He will feel badly for causing them pain, because he is a good soul. But he will have them, and with their blessing.

Gently, Thenvunin’s fingers begin to press into their feathers.

“Has anyone ever touched these kindly?” he wonders, quietly.

Uthvir swallows.

“They were generally cleaned and cared for after removal,” they explain. Their wings are impressive alone, but they always gleamed and shone whenever the taxidermist was finished with them.

Thenvunin goes quiet, for several long moments. And then his touch moves again, gently passing through Uthvir’s feathers. It is an odd sensation. At times it almost hurts, like jabbing a bruise. But there is something strangely, viscerally pleasant about it as well. They suck a breath in through their teeth as Thenvunin straightens a few of their larger feathers, and then brushes a knuckle over the base of that wing. Firmly enough that Uthvir feels something  _pop,_ and some of the odd pressure on their shoulders eases.

“Lie down,” Thenvunin instructs, in his ‘bird handler’ voice.

Uthvir feels a trill of amusement, even despite everything, as they do as he says. Settling onto the grass on their stomach again, as Thenvunin comes down alongside them, and rests a hand just briefly atop their scars.

“You need preen oil,” Thenvunin informs them, then. “Normally birds have a gland that produces it in their tail feathers, but as you do not have tail feathers, I shall have to go and fetch some. Wait right here.”

Uthvir blinks, their mind still attempting to process that as Thenvunin moves off, and retrieves something from the supply closet by the garden door. They wonder if he had felt this consternated by the introduction of lubricants into other proceedings between them, as he settles down beside them again, and opens the top of a healthy-sized jug. An odd, but not unpleasant scent drifts up as Thenvunin dips his fingers inside, and carefully coats them, before returning his attention to Uthvir’s feathers.

They suppose they should have seen this coming, really. Perhaps if they had been thinking more clearly, they would have. But as it stands they barely have the capacity to wrap their head around this development before most of their thoughts skitter off into fragmented gibberish, again, lost to the unexpectedly powerful sensations of Thenvunin pressing soft, gentle fingers in amidst their feathers.

“Flurry birds have four wings,” Thenvunin tells them, after several long moments of silence that are punctuated only by the fluctuating breaths and occasional moan that slips past them. “Which, in terms of limb count, is much closer to an elf with wings and arms. They have to use them in special tandem in order to achieve flight. I tried breeding them for several decades, back before I met you. I ended up selling off all of my stock to another breeder after a while, though. The hatchlings are brutally competitive, and try to kill one another in the nest. In order to stop it I would separate out the eggs, but then the parents would only raise whatever egg was left in the nest. They tend to lay at least five, and the hatchlings need feeding every few hours. It was a nightmare to keep up with.”

Uthvir blinks, and listens to the soft cadence of his voice, as his fingers find a spot that makes them hiss and then almost cry out with relief as he shifts something there.

“Can you even fly with these?” he asks.

“Yes,” they manage. They usually have to think and not-think about the process a great to pull it off, detaching themselves as much as possible without actually losing the shape, but they certainly can do it. And have done it.

It’s easier just to turn into a bird, though.

“There are some sea birds, you know. They set out from the shore as adults, and they fly, and they do not touch dry land again for months. And I would bet their wings are in better shape than yours are,” Thenvunin tells them.

They wince in earnest, then.

“Are they not to your liking?” they quip, and his fingers still.

“They are beautiful,” he assures them. “The most wondrous I have ever touched. For many reasons.”

He resumes his gentle treatment, then. And Uthvir finds they do not know what to say. The grass smells sweet, though, and after a while they begin drifting off into an odd in-between state of being almost asleep, and hyper aware of everything going on, and thoroughly relaxed, and also somewhat terrified. The contrasts are so intense, they are beginning to suspect that they have landed in some rare middle ground of peaceful, terrible equilibrium.

Thenvunin switches wings.

They are fairly certain he is turning their bones into pudding, somehow.

By the time he finishes, their entire body is tingling. They have come out of evenings of marathon sex without feeling so thoroughly, delicately decimated. Their wings ache. As if a hundred thousand new nerves in them have suddenly come to life, and started complaining about the situation, but the pain is tempered by a heady flood of relief, too. Tingling and contrasting, and Thenvunin tsk’s and says that any more will have to wait, because he is out of preen oil and cannot get his jug refilled until tomorrow.

At least, that seems to be the gist of it. They are having a bit of trouble focusing on his individual words right now.

Uthvir mumbles a vague reply. Thenvunin brushes the base of their wings again, angling his hands beneath them this time, and they gasp as something  _pops_  and the pain decreases by about a solid tenth. His hands are careful, even as some part of them braces for it all to increase. For sharp cuts, and heat, and blood.

“All done,” Thenvunin says, gently. “Of course, they are not nearly in the shape they  _should_ be. But that is a vast improvement. If you are willing, we can do this a few more times, and actually get them in agreeable condition for you.”

Uthvir blinks, and just lays where they are for several moments. Processing. Thenvunin rests beside them, and does not seem to mind. He moves his fingers to their hair instead, for a few moments. And then he simply puts his hand on their arm, and lies with them until the wind turns just a little too cold. Uthvir shivers. Their feathers rustle, and all at once, they manage to twist themselves back into their usual shape. A low snap of magic, and the wings are gone.

Slowly, they sit up.

Thenvunin sits up with them.

They blink at him.

“…I still don’t know which undergarments you picked,” they say.

In the dizzying aftermath, for some reason, that seems like the only matter they might still be capable of tackling.

Thenvunin snorts, and gently urges them up onto their feet. Curling an arm around them.

“The red ones,” he says, and kisses their temple.

Ah.

Beautiful man.

They truly, truly do not deserve him. But, as he draws them into his room, and into his bed, and then into his arms, too, it seems he disagrees.


	11. Chapter 11

Uthvir is exhausted.

Bone-deep, through and through exhausted. Tired as they rarely ever let themselves get. They’ve been running on fumes for the past few days, making preparation in light of a warning that Elgar’nan’s peacekeepers are planning to launch a ‘surprise inspection’ and ‘investigation of insurgency’ in Daran. Not a pleasant prospect in and of itself, but Mana’Din has suspicions that this investigation is only a misdirection from another ‘surprise’ which her grandfather has in store, and that a separate contingent will be appearing in one of the outlying cities or settlements.

The only problem is that, if that is  _true,_  no one is quite certain which of the alternative locations might be targeted. Uthvir goes to Arlathan, after the initial meeting to discuss the issue. Taking along two of their more capable apprentices, and one of Mana’Din’s aspiring bodyguards, and visiting the peacekeeper barracks in the city under the guise of exchanging new training techniques. Uthvir does not labour under the misapprehension that the Peacekeeper General is  _that_  naïve, but some of his underlings are a little freer with talk.

Not free enough, however.

The endeavour proves to be good practice for the apprentices, but in the end, Uthvir is forced to leverage several favours to get even a whisper. They end up following a lead into the Pleasure District, and parting with some considerable bribes and assurances of anonymity before they get the best information anyone has had so far – that the Crossroads Estate, where Mana’Din’s cross-dimensional eluvian projects are housed, is to be the subject of the investigation.

Which is… one of the worst possible prospects.

They send one of their apprentices ahead with the message, and by the time they get back to Daran, Mana’Din has already left for the Crossroads Estate. Thenvunin in tow. The plan, Elalas informs them, is to seal off access to the eluvian and pretend that the network was down for repairs. Since Elgar’nan’s ‘inspection’ lacks sufficient warning anyway, he will be ill-equipped to complain over their timing; and in case the peacekeepers get the clever idea of opening a path to one of the nearer villages, Thenvunin and several other coordinators and military experts are being tasked with moving the garrisons from the nearest outposts over to a waystation on the road leading out from the estate.

There are only three problems with this:

The waystation does not exist, the soldiers are not privy to most of the estate’s purposes, and the current interdimensional refugees encamped around the grounds are bound to notice the sudden emergence of several armed forces along the road, and liable to be made nervous by it.

Uthvir is half tempted to suggest that they just rig a giant trap pit along the road and feign complete ignorance if Elgar’nan should ask what happened to his illegal inspection.

Mana’Din disagrees; Lavellan, on the other hand, does not.

Uthvir would contemplate the interesting nuances therein, if they were not busy running to and fro with their daughter, double-checking their information and mustering back-up plans, and taking the opportunity to try and upset the power balances in Elgar’nan’s territory as much as possible. Delaying effective administration on their end is, at the least, a good tactic to buy more time. Lavellan sets out after the first week to join in securing the physical road to the estate, and Uthvir is tasked with escorting a variety of delicate shipments which Mana’Din requires in order to close the crossroads network down without closing the connectivity to other dimensions.

Which is a task their lady must perform alone, for secrecy’s sake, and so Uthvir must muddle the records of and destinations for several strange supply lists, and then ferry over the crates themselves by dead of night.

After several weeks, the peacekeeper contingent arrives in Daran, and fails to make it to the estate. Mana’Din, Elalas, Thenvunin, and Lavellan are all at the estate as a precaution, and so Uthvir and several other high-ranking elves are left to deal with the actual, semi-official inspection. Which only grows more tense when Elgar’nan himself arrives, and manages to level enough threats that he nearly inspires a city-wide riot.

At which point, Mana’Din returns.

The effect, Uthvir thinks, is actually rather interesting to contemplate. Mana’Din’s popularity and approval remain difficult to gauge; wildly fluctuating from one source to the next. But when she returns to Daran, there is a pronounced decrease in the unease filling the streets. There is more  _talk_  of unhappiness, Uthvir notes; but it seems to be because the people feel safer. They feel that they can voice their complaints, that Mana’Din will not let her grandfather execute them for doing so, and so the sense of impending violence eases its grip, even as the complaints throughout the city skyrocket.

It takes three weeks to get the peacekeepers out of Daran. Elgar’nan demands the execution of three of the city’s residents, which Mana’Din contests, and eventually wins. It is her own territory, after all. Many of the pro-evanuris elements in the city, Uthvir gleans, think she should take up Mythal’s offer of a permanent station of  _her_  peacekeepers, to appease Elgar’nan while providing a more ‘delicate’ touch.

They do not quite seem to realize that letting one cluster of rats take over the silo in hopes that they will keep out the rest is a fool’s errand.

Or perhaps they do. Some of them  _would_  benefit more from Mythal’s influence over the territory.  Uthvir supposes they will have to investigate further, to know whom to credit with cunning rather than ignorance. They make a dozen coded notes to themselves, and as the days drag on their senses grow more sharp. Distorted. Fear taking a stronger hold, to pick up the slack. Paranoia sinking in. Later, when they review some of their notes, they will have to concede that a good half of them are speculating along… very unlikely lines of thought.

But then the last of the inspection is done with, and the city breathes its true sigh of relief – in customary Daran fashion, this manifests in complaints; much as with Thenvunin, in fact – and Uthvir is more exhausted than they can ever recall being. They sink into a bath, to try and ease the edge of nerves that are still running ragged beneath their skin. Thenvunin and Lavellan are coming home tomorrow, they remind themselves. Nearly falling asleep in the bath, but then Fear reminds them that drowning is an unpleasant prospect.

Their body aches as they pull their armour back on, then, and retreat into their room, checking their wards and dropping into their desk chair. They want nothing more than to drop their head onto a pillow, but however tired they may be, Fear is too close to the surface to let them. So armour it is, and chair it is, falling into the seat and leaning back, and barely managing a cursory check of their wards before they go out like a light.

They wake at some point. It is surprisingly difficult. There is a hand on their cheek, which would be alarming, except that Fear isn’t screaming at them. They know that hand. They blink, and see blond hair, and a lot of pink. Ah. Thenvunin. His voice is soft; inquiring, but not urgent. Uthvir blearily manages a reply, though they don’t recall it at all a moment later. Then they are being prodded, and shifted around. Hands finding the catches of their armour. Pieces sliding off, and oh, that feels much better. Lighter. Thenvunin strips them down, and folds them into the bed.

Everything is soft.

Are they safe?

Thenvunin’s lips brush their temple.

“Perfectly safe,” he says. “Lavellan is here, and I will keep watch.”

Good, Uthvir thinks. The blankets are heavy, and the blackness of deep sleep is inviting. Fingers brush through their hair, and they drift off again. Dragged under by the heavy weight of their over-extended consciousness.

The next time they wake, there is mid-morning light in the room. Their head feels uncommonly heavy, and so do their limbs. They feel like they have slept for days; there’s a chance they might have, in fact. A dull, throbbing ache between their temples alludes to the remaining toll their recent activities have taken. They sit up, and take stock of their room. Empty, quiet. The wards humming in a way that implies that Thenvunin and Lavellan are both safely within them. Good. Uthvir thinks they should go and properly check on their family, but it is surprisingly difficult, even now, to muster the reserves to get up. They push back the blankets, and their movements are uncomfortably sluggish.

The door opens.

They blink. Blond and blue, this time. Thenvunin again. The unsettled flip of their stomach eases somewhat, and he looks at them a moment before slipping into the room, and closing the door behind him.

“I was starting to contemplate fetching a healer,” he says.

“Mm. Apologies,” Uthvir manages. “Do not worry. I just… over extended myself.”

Thenvunin nods, and then tuts a bit, and moves over to them. The mattress dips as he climbs onto it. He is fully clothed, Uthvir realizes. Fully clothed, and they are naked. For some reason the turnaround amuses them, right now. They chuckle, and it turns into a yawn. Thenvunin leans in, and rather pointedly folds one of the sheets over them again. The air is awash with tenderness.

“I should get up,” they say.

“I will bring you some food and water,” Thenvunin says. “But otherwise, no. Rest.”

The blanket is soft and still warmed from their body heat, and very enticing when compared with the cool air on their skin. Uthvir manages a somewhat incoherent and unconvincing protest, before some part of them reminds themselves that at this point, it would probably be more dignified just to give in.

“You should rest, too,” Uthvir opines. Thenvunin has been running around at the estate road, after all. And the outposts.

“Funnily enough, I actually thought to sleep  _during_  the crisis,” he tells them. “But I promise I will sleep with you tonight, as well.”

Oh.

Well.

Good, then.

Uthvir leans against his shoulder, and lets out a breath. Wrapped up in a blanket, their gaze catching on the pretty details of Thenvunin’s outfit. His lips pressing against their brow.

“I will be back,” he says.

But somehow, he doesn’t quite manage to leave before Uthvir falls asleep again. In his arms, this time.

 

~

 

Thenvunin comes back from dealing with several of Mana’Din’s military outposts, at the end of the latest political upheaval courtesy of Elgar’nan, and finds Uthvir passed out in a chair in their room.

That is concerning.

It is even more concerning when he moves over and they fail to wake, immediately. He brushes a hand across their cheek, and their eyelids barely flutter. Their skin is cool, and there are deep shadows under their eyes, and their lips are chapped. Thenvunin frowns, and wonders what has happened to them. Were they attacked? Injured?

“Uthvir?” he tries, on the verge of scooping them up and running for the healers. Shouting for Lavellan, tearing through the halls.

Uthvir’s eyes open, and they blink at him.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

They blink again.

“No. Tired,” they say, and Thenvunin puts together a better impression of what might have happened. A crisis, of course. And all of them busy, all of them running around and doing things. Uthvir neglects sleep even at the best of times, and almost always stays awake during trying times. But this particular disaster has been long-running and complex; and at once, Thenvunin suspects that Uthvir has not slept at all during it.

Falling asleep in a chair, fully-clothed and armoured, is probably not the ideal recovery approach.

Thenvunin’s frown deepens, and he coaxes Uthvir up onto their feet.

“Well this is no way to rest,” he declares. “Come on. Up.”

Uthvir is surprisingly pliant, as Thenvunin divests them of their armour, and their clothes. Which have been taxed beyond even their usual capacity to withstand an accumulation of sweat, just going by the stale scent of them. It is strangely mesmerizing, though, to strip off every single piece of armour Uthvir has with his own two hands. Uncovering soft skin and tired muscles, as Uthvir rests their weight against him, and sighs.

Thenvunin wants to just climb into bed with them, and hold them until he can be certain that they have gotten enough  _sleep._

But he has duties still to attend to. Reports to finish, and the garden needs checking on, and Lavellan is just outside in the main room waiting for him to come back. She will probably come and knock on the door if he takes too long, and that could disturb Uthvir’s rest. So Thenvunin settles for a stolen kiss, before he tucks them into the covers. Assuring them that all is well, when they ask him if things are safe, with a look that cracks right through his ribs.

Uthvir sleeps for  _days._

Thenvunin is not really surprised, though he is worried. He keeps an eye on them, and climbs into the bed with them at night. They barely stir, and only barely blink awake when he pulls them to himself, and listens to their breathing. Checks their pulse, and in the morning, gets them to drink a few mouthfuls of water.

He is contemplating involving the healers, again, when he comes into the room to find Uthvir awake.

For a given value of ‘wakefulness’.

They are sitting up on the bed, dishevelled and clearly still in need of rest. But Thenvunin is relieved to see them conscious. He wraps them back up in the blankets, and cannot help but hold them until they drift off again, even though he knows he needs to get them food and water and probably a bath in the near future. But he finds it very difficult to pull himself away from them, when they are like this. When things are private, and quiet, and all their barriers are down.

Eventually he does go and get them food, though. They are muzzy-headed but full of wry commentary as they eat on the bed, and offer him a few sleepy kisses. Thenvunin brings them a few books and some paperwork from their desk, after, and after dinner, he obligingly curls up next to them and tells them about his own recent activities, until they drift off once more against his shoulder.

It is…

He knows they do not trust easily. And he knows that, despite that, they have trusted him with their vulnerability before. But this is different, somehow. Intimate in  a way that their other encounters with intimacy has not entirely exposed. Uthvir is exhausted, but they are in his arms rather than curled up on the edge of a mattress; wrapped in  _him,_  rather than a million layers of blankets and clothing and barriers.

Thenvunin wonders when they decided they trusted him enough.

The thought stays with him, through the morning when Uthvir blinks awake and stretches, a jaw-cracking yawn escaping them. Through the breakfast they fall upon ravenously, and the bath they take afterwards. He thinks of it as Uthvir presses him to the bathroom wall, a light in their eyes and no trembling in the strength of their arms, and whispers of their  _other_ appetites. He thinks of it as they take him apart with kisses and caresses, climaxes that leave him feeling boneless. Attentions that make him feel cherished, as he rests his weight against them, in turn, and they nuzzle and nip at the corner of his jaw.

“I missed you,” he confesses.

His heart skips a beat when they press a kiss to the pulse point of his wrist.

But the rest of the day calls for duties to be attended to. There’s much still to do, in the aftermath of Elgar’nan’s meddling. Thenvunin feels lighter, though, as Uthvir gets back into form – donning their armour, and their smirks, walking on steady legs and with clear eyes. Their exhaustion has been defeated, and yet even so. The thought of their vulnerability stays with him even past that point. Past one day, and on into the next. It flares up every now and again, when he sees them fitting on their armour. Watches them guiding their apprentices, commanding respect in negotiations, even fielding a duel with one of Elgar’nan’s champions. Thenvunin watches them be as armoured as ever. He shivers beneath their usual ministrations, as they hold him and pin him, and he thinks of it when the acquiesce to his requests for softness, and press their skin to his skin.

He wants…

He is not really sure, actually. Perhaps it is not really something that needs to be defined as a unique desire. But it is something that lingers, for weeks and weeks, until finally Thenvunin and Uthvir are in the garden, taking their ‘autumn harvest’ together. Uthvir’s gauntlets are gone, and their forearms are bare but for a pair of wrist guards as they carefully claim the fruit from the grape vines that have spontaneously taken up tangled residence near the west side of the garden wall.

Thenvunin never even planted grapes. But they are lovely, and delicious, so he is not complaining.

He watches Uthvir’s hands, and it strikes him as strangely… exposed. Like he has walked in on them half-dressed, even though bared forearms are hardly scandalous. They show their biceps often enough, and yet…

He glances over at them, frequently, until he finishes with the roots he has gathered from the little vegetable plot. And then he wipes his hands off on the cloth at his belt, and makes his way over to them.

“Just finished,” they assure him. “Did we get everything, or…?”

They trail off as they turn towards him, and Thenvunin presses a hand to their cheek, and leans in, and kisses them.

They taste like the spiced cider everyone tried at lunch. The experimental kind the kitchens have been working on, with those new apples everyone is growing.

Thenvunin caresses their face, as he deepens the kiss. He feels their breath catch, and tilts his head. He does not think he will ever be able to kiss them swiftly of his own accord, but he does not suppose that is necessarily a problem anymore, either. Their lips are sweet, and their teeth are sharp, and he wants to peel all the rest of their armour off.

When he pulls back, they blink at him.

“In a mood?” they ask, amused, but obviously pleased.

Thenvunin drops onto the wooden bench near to their vines, and tugs them over. They move with the ease of familiarity, straddling his lap and pressing another kiss to him. A kiss like many he has enjoyed, and enjoys again this time. Hungry and assertive, but it changes as Thenvunin leans forward, and carefully seizes control of it instead. Pressing them more firmly to his chest, rather than letting them grind against him, and working his tongue between their lips as he closes a hand over their backside.

It is a good backside. Even with the thick material of their pants still covering most of it, he can feel the firm swell underneath. Uthvir’s armour presses against his chest, and their arms curl around the tops of his shoulders. Their breath hitches, again.

When they pull back from the kiss, they lick their lips.

 _“Quite_  a mood,” they observe.

“I am certain I have no idea what you mean. This is hardly an uncommon mood,” Thenvunin says, as he moves a hand from their back to the latches on their armour. He keeps one hand in place to support their weight, as he feels his way through to where the fastenings are. Decades of familiarity letting him manage even Uthvir’s complex armour without necessarily having to see what he’s doing. They tilt their hips towards him a bit more, and move one of their own hands to the collar of his shirt.

“May I?” he asks, as his fingers hesitate over the last catch for their shoulder braces.

“As you like,” Uthvir agrees, easily. Thenvunin kisses them again as he sends the spiked pieces tumbling to the ground, narrowly missing his own foot in his haste.

But it is not, he thinks, so much that he enjoys divesting Uthvir of their garments. No. He goes about the remaining pieces with increasing haste. What he enjoys is having them  _gone._ He coaxes them off of him a little, and lets them help as he unfastens their chest plate, and lets them handle their thighs as he divests them of their boots. Pulling it all away until there is only fabric left, but that is still too much; and so, for the second time – and the first with a fully coherent Uthvir – Thenvunin finds himself fully clothed, and them utterly undressed.

A reversal, he supposes, as he pulls them back into his arms.

They shiver.

“It is a little cold for this,” they say, betraying a hint of genuine discomfort.

Thenvunin feels, at once, abashed.

“Inside, then,” he agrees, and scoops them up.

They have no right to look that surprised, he thinks. He has picked them up before, and it is certainly less ungainly than the reverse scenario, and probably warmer, too. The bits and pieces of their armour are left scattered around the garden bench as Thenvunin carries them inside, ignoring Screecher’s offended calls.

It is, Thenvunin discovers, very nice to kiss Uthvir when he is carrying them. Their hands press at his collar, claws digging in just the tiniest bit, and the angle is actually better than when they’re standing on the ground in front of him. Technically higher, he thinks. But perhaps it is also that he  _has_  them, that he has gained enough confidence in these things to know that he can manage this, that he can hold them and – up to a point – look after them. And take acts that will please them.

“My heart,” he says, as he carries them to the bed. “Heart’s desire.”

“Romantic,” Uthvir commends, and as soon as he deposits them onto the mattress, they are up and kissing him again. Hands moving towards his belt, and the ties of his leggings.

They let him take over that kiss, too, however. And their actions stall someone as his hand caresses down their spine, moving just gently over their scars, before cupping their backside again. Which… really is even more pleasant this way, he decides. Their lips move to the side of his mouth, and then they let out a breath and crumple against him, kissing the lobe of his ear.

“What do you want?” they whisper, enticing, but also… something else.

Something that makes Thenvunin push them gently back towards the cushions, as he joins them on the bed. Letting them lay with their back against the mattress; away from the open air.

“You,” he says, simply.

He runs a hand down their chest, and their stomach. Watches it rise and fall, and thinks of all the times they’ve had him like this. Spread out beneath them. Before them. Admiring him, openly, deciding where to place a kiss, or a bite. Where to touch. Where to taste.

It is a little overwhelming, he thinks.

But they are Uthvir, in the end, and he is not afraid that they will disregard him if he fails to get this right.

He folds himself over them, and with a brush to their cheek has them turning their head, and he settles on their left ear, first. The sweet golden tip, and thin skin that flushes when he takes it between his lips. He brushes his thumb across their opposite cheek as he kisses his way down to the corner of their jaw. Feeling their every shift, ever shudder beneath him. One of their hands grips his shoulder, and the other tangles into his hair as he makes his way down their neck, and to their collarbones.

Their nipples are dark, and soft, and pebble swiftly beneath his tongue.

Uthvir makes a sound, then, twisting and bucking upwards a little, as their legs spread further apart. The hand in his hair presses him a little more firmly to the task, and his apparent success is very encouraging. He devotes more effort to it, toying with the sensitive skin until Uthvir lets out a soft curse, and flexes their fingers against his shoulder.

They are beautiful.

“Uthvir,” he sighs, as he runs his hands down their sides.

They swallow.

“Whatever you wish,” they promise. “We can do whatever you wish, beloved.”

Thenvunin can smell their arousal. He shifts, and moves to their side, and slips a hand between their legs. Pressing searching fingers into the warm, wet folds there, until he gets them both arranged well enough that he can hold them close and work firm, circular motions with his fingers, that have them rocking their hips.

He kisses their temple, as his hand grows more and more damp, and the movements get slicker and easier. Uthvir’s hips move a little more insistently, and after a moment, they reach a hand down and push their own questing fingers into their entrance. Thenvunin lets them take over, and moves his slick hand to their jaw, and tilts them towards him for another kiss. Then he leans over them, and slips his leg between theirs, coaxing them up until they’re pressed between fingers and thigh. His hands at their hips, pressing them into rocking against him. They clamp their legs tightly around his, like they’re trying to drag him in.

It is a little messy, a little hectic, nothing he thinks he could describe in a way that others would appreciate. But their movements grow more frantic and they buck against him and then still. Eyelids fluttering, as they come against him, and the warmth of his own arousal just rushes through him as surely as if they’d lit his own veins.

He nudges their knees apart, and settles between them.  Almost lightheaded with arousal, as he pushes aside the askew fabric of his pants. The heat as he sinks into them is amazing. Uthvir in his arms, flushed and dishevelled and perfect. Thenvunin buries his nose in their hair, and moves slowly, and listens to the hitch of their breath as they drag their nails across his back. He wants to feel them closer. Enough so that he regrets not undressing himself. Reversals aside, he thinks her prefers it when they’re  _both_  naked.

As if they happen to be reading his mind, Uthvir slides their hands through the sides of his tunic, and presses their palms flat against the backs of his shoulders.

“I love you,” they promise him.

It undoes him, in all honesty. The soft words, and their hands against him, and their heat and beauty and  _them._  He holds out only a little longer through sheer stubbornness, before he finally spills into them and all but collapses over them.

For a few moments, then, they simply lie together. Sweaty, entangled, and oddly comfortable. Uthvir mouths as the side of his neck, doing that thing where they do not  _quite_  bite him, but he can still feel their teeth. It makes his skin tingle, on top of the rush that is still pouring through him from his release.

“I love you, too,” he finally returns, breathlessly.

He feels them smile against him.

“So I gathered,” they say, and then roll him over with almost embarrassing ease. Thenvunin blinks as the room tilts, and his head lands with a soft  _whump_  against one of the pillows.

Uthvir grins down at him.

“You are over-dressed,” they inform him.

He snorts.

“ _You_  are going to make that accusation?” he replies. He is not in  _armour,_  after all. But Uthvir’s grin just widens, as they start undoing the fastenings on his tunic.

“I never pretended to be fair,” they say.

But they are glowing, warm and playful, and they just…

Thenvunin stills as he realizes the full weight of what has just happened. What they just let him do, without protest, without even much  _discomfort_  once it wasn’t too cold. They let him have the upper hand, let him undress them and have them, and they have not even really taken his pants off yet.

They have never really  _discussed_  this, but Thenvunin knows it says a lot, just the same.

Trust.

They tug off his belt and sash, and Thenvunin reaches up and cups his hands around their face.

“Thank you,” he says. “For trusting me with yourself.”

Uthvir’s expression wavers, just a bit. Inexplicable guilt. Thenvunin does not know what for; but sometimes feelings are strange like that. Perhaps that they had not thought to offer such a thing themselves, but he doubts the timing would have felt right. It was a moment, built out of many moments before. He has learned the vital nature of such things, and how fickle, and unpredictable, they can be.

“I do trust you. More than I ever thought to trust anyone,” they say, and tilt their head to kiss his palm.

Thenvunin smiles.

 

~

 

Everyone knows, of course, that Mana’Din’s spymaster has but two weaknesses:

A daughter, and a lover.

Thenvunin has chanced to meet the daughter only once, after she was grown. He had not even realized the connection at the time, more concerned with her uncanny resemblance to a young Mana’Din, and the missives she was delivering at the time. She had seemed very cordial, had even ventured a sufficient compliment to his outfit. He had wondered if it was to become a trend, if Mana’Din’s messengers would all start to resemble her – symbolically appropriate, he supposed, if she intended to have them speak on her behalf. June had gone through a similar phase, before deeming the concept unappealing.

It was only afterwards, as palace gossip spread, that he realized her connection to the mysterious Uthvir of Mana’Din’s quarter.

Uthvir, who had come and visited him to discuss the matter of birds. Whom Thenvunin had subsequently glimpsed at several gatherings, in increasingly menacing attire. A smirk on their lips; a glint in their eye. They always seemed to have a compliment for him, as well. Like parent, like child, Thenvunin could only suppose.

Uthvir’s lover he has not met. But they have communicated through correspondence, very briefly.

_Thenerassan._

The name had given Thenvunin pause, of course. But only for a moment or two. It is a very nice name, after all – precisely why he chose it for his fictional endeavours to begin with – and it is not the first time he has subsequently encountered an elf bearing it in person. Though the last was a distant commander of Elgar’nan’s forces, who fell in battle a few years before the Nameless surrendered their side of the north eastern coastline, and withdrew to the islands.

Perhaps it is the coincidence that has him dwelling upon it all. Wondering what Uthvir’s lover is like. Rumours hold that the two are quite clearly in love. What kind of man could steal the heart of Mana’Din’s mysterious spy master? Someone like them? A kindred spirit, equally as charming and formidable?

He keeps an ear out to the rumours. Hears  _broad_  and  _strong,_  but also  _handsome_  and  _lovely._ A mess of contradictions. One week it seems like this Thenerassan is all but cloistered away in Mana’Din’s lands, carefully protected by walls and gardens, and Thenvunin envisions some princely figure with beauty to rival Tasallir’s, sitting amongst his birds and pining for his love to return to him. But the next it seems he is active and bold, organizing events and commanding the attention of rooms full of managers and coordinators, a soldier who knows the forms of etiquette as well; and then Thenvunin pictures someone imposing and assertive, fit to sweep the likes of an unfashionably short elf up into his arms and take his pleasure from them.

Thenvunin pens a short tale, very loosely inspired by some of his imaginings, in which Prince Thenerassan is kidnapped by a man sent to take his place in the courts of his homeland. An imposter; but one whose sly spouse is charmed by Thenerassan’s beauty, and becomes determined to make the exchange a permanent one.

It does not go so well, however. Thenvunin cannot quite decide where all the characters should be, and in the end, he puts it aside, and tries to put the mysterious rumours aside as well. He has more to do. Tasks to accomplish, duties to attend. He is being frivolous with this distraction, he knows; even if part of his duties include a certain degree of awareness of the high-ranking elves serving other evanuris. Uthvir may be one of the most promising individuals to come out of Mana’Din’s inherited mess of a territory, but he is not even certain what rank their lover holds. Presumably high, given his involvement with some of Mana’Din’s events; but then again, he could also be a mid-ranking official who presses the advantages permitted by his lover’s regard.

…Perhaps he  _should_  look into it further.

But not obsessively. Only when matters allow for it, really.

A few years into the matter, his mother comes to Arlathan to work on a commission for Mythal herself. Thenvunin arranges to be in the city, to spend some time with her while they are not both busy with their duties. It is good to see her again, as she sweeps him into a hug, and tuts over his styling, and makes him change all of his accessories before she sweeps him off to one of the city’s nicer recreational dining establishments.

A few of her friends are already there, and Thenvunin puts up with being made to feel three hundred rather than three thousand as they prod him with questions about his career and love life.

“You should come and visit me more,” Melarue declares. “I have a new masseuse, very good at inspiring atmospheres of relaxation. They know enough ambient spirits to have impressed me. A certain party – who will remain unnamed – visited the main building a fortnight ago, and though they arrived with a more lascivious outlook, within an hour they had relaxed so bone-deeply that they spent the next twelve actually sleeping on a bed of clouds.”

Thenvunin sniffs.

“I hope you are not implying that you consider me too high-strung,” he says.

“That is  _precisely_  what I am implying,” Melarue declares. It makes his mother frown, and reach over to brush a strand of his braids away from the side of his cheek.

“Have you been over-worked? When was the last time you took a leave from your duties?” she asks him.

“My duties have not been over-taxing me,” Thenvunin insists. What has brought this on? Does he seem strained? He attempts to discreetly check the nearest mirror, and then his cuticles. Are his hands looking too creased again? He thinks he might have neglected to properly moisturize them before he left his chambers this morning.

“It is your aura,” Melarue informs him, mercifully.

His mother tuts again, and Thenvunin has to catch her hand to make her relent in fussing over him in public. A few of the other elves arrayed around their table murmur in various agreements, and so the conversation shifts towards how Thenvunin might manage his supposed ‘emotional fatigue’. Which is, unfortunately, a conversation that comes up from time to time. He is starting to suspect that when his mother’s friends cannot see anything immediately awry with him, they manufacture excuses to worry.

Melarue advises him to pursue the services their lauded masseuse again, before Thenvunin decides to mention an errand he needs to run, and takes his leave of the group. He promises to meet his mother again tomorrow, and ignores several more comments about his ‘over work’ as he makes his way back into the city.

And halts.

Uthvir.

He notices them, first. It is the red, he thinks. That splash of colour is particular striking – nearly inappropriate – against the delicate golds and lavenders of the street’s décor. They are dressed well, despite their peculiar tastes. The dyes for their armour are of the highest quality, and they are cloaked and sashed, delicate tassels dropping from their shoulders, and the embroidered fabric of their belt. But it is their face that arrests his attention, after a moment. Their expression, which is soft and pleased, and very beautiful in that soft pleasure.

It takes Thenvunin a moment to drag his stare away from it, and note their companion. The source, it seems, of their gentility.

He is struck dumb by the sight.

The man is tall, and indeed broad, with fair hair. Clad in woven armour and lavender skythread, with a few subtle hints of finery here and there, and a sunlit ribbon woven into his simple ponytail. His fingers are threaded just slightly with Uthvir’s, and his face is half turned away. But the resemblance is undeniable.

The man looks like his father.

Thenvunin has met elves with what he supposes is the ‘family look’ before. His father is Waking-born, and had kin among Falon’Din’s ranks, he knows. But they tended to be slighter of build. Darker of complexion, too, as he recalls. And he had thought them all killed in Falon’Din’s horrible betrayal. However… distant, things had become with his father, Thenvunin had still always endeavoured to keep track of his relatives. His grandparents and great-grandparents have long been in uthenera, and his grandmother’s sister, he knows, was one of Falon’Din’s architects. She had a child with a pair of Ghilan’nain’s servants, a few centuries before she began to rise in rank, and promptly severed all contact with the rest of the family. The last Thenvunin heard of her, she had been made one of Falon’Din’s attendants – and all of Falon’Din’s attendants were slain.

Her child had also been set to serve that grim master. Thenvunin met them in person only once, during one of the early campaigns against the Nameless. They had fallen a half century later, slain at the Great Southern Ravine – though their body was never recovered.

This information flits through his mind, as he finds himself wondering if either his cousin or great-aunt somehow managed to escape what seemed irrefutable death. And not only escape it, but go on to procreate; for this man does not seem to be either of them. He has the look of Thenvunin’s father, though. More military, he can tell in an instant, and unapologetically so. His outfit does nothing to diminish the width of his upper body; the imbalanced shape, that alludes to unseemly musculature.  _Uncouth,_  Thenvunin thinks. Some elven warriors have forms that do not grow heavy with their strength, that build muscles which tense like cords and never hinder the refinement of their form.

He has never been so fortunate. And neither, it seems, has this unexpected figure.

The moment passes, inspiring a jumble of surprise and confusion that he fails to suppress, and then Uthvir and their companion finally seem to note that they are no longer alone on this street.

They both stare at him.

Thenvunin stares back.

It is Uthvir who breaks the awkward silence of the moment.

“Thenvunin,” they acknowledge, with a tilt of their head. Their companion shifts, slightly, and the grip they have on the spy master goes from a light interlocking of fingers to something a little more firm.

As the surprise wears off, Thenvunin takes a moment to note how very mismatched the pair seems. For all the fault in his styling, Uthvir’s companion has at least taken care to match with the city’s décor. But that has put him in utter incongruity with his fellow servant of Mana’Din, who is so sharp and bold and uncontained by common aesthetic expectations.

Both are equally easy to disapprove of in terms of fashionability. Thenvunin swallows his displeasure, however, and nods in return.

“Uthvir,” he says. “It is good to see you again. I hope pleasant business only brings you to the city.”

The spy master smirks.

“It has been pleasant enough. I have come as an escort to my beloved Thenerassan, who wished to examine several market wares in person,” they explain. Not bothering to unlock their hand from the man who has grasped it, and Thenvunin barely manages to supress his surprise for a second time; even though he supposes it only makes sense. Who else would be so bold as to hold those sharp, armour-clad fingers?

But this is Thenerassan, Uthvir’s Thenerassan, and he  _looks like…_

…Well.

Perhaps that explains some of Uthvir’s friendliness towards him.

The revelation is oddly disheartening.

“I am happy to meet you, Thenerassan,” Thenvunin manages, even as his heart speeds up. It is somewhat surreal, he will concede. On the surface, Uthvir does not lack for a certain thematic resemblance to a type of character common to Thenvunin’s writing. And their lover shares the name of his own protagonist, who is, in some moderate way, based off of Thenvunin himself.

Thenerassan, for his part, only manages a nod in return.

“May I ask,” Thenvunin says, shifting slightly. “Are you of any relation to a woodcarver named Nadas? A specialist in furniture designs. He is currently a mid-ranking servant of June, but he once graced the higher ranks of Mythal’s artisans.”

Thenerassan freezes.

It is Uthvir, in fact, who answers the question.

“Yes, actually. I believe he was a cousin of sorts to one of Thenerassan’s parents; though none of his immediate kin survived the great tragedy that brought us to Mana’Din’s service. I fear my beloved is not keen on such conversations.”

Thenvunin lifts his chin, but inclines his head again.

“I apologize,” he says, turning his gaze back to Thenerassan. “It is only that you share a striking resemblance…”

“More passing, I would say,” Uthvir interjects. “Men of certain colouring, who share a warrior’s countenance, do tend to seem akin to one another. And it is a popular look in the city. I suppose we have you to credit for that?”

Thenvunin blinks, and nearly betrays how taken aback he is. He is fashionable, to be sure, and quite beautiful, and rarely puts a hair out of place. But he is aware that he has always aimed to follow trends, rather than set them. There have only been a few times he has made splashes of his own in Arlathan’s aesthetic trends, and neither of those instances saw an upswing in brutishness or ungainly stature.

Thankfully. His own flaws are ones he takes great pains to diminish.

But perhaps that is not what Uthvir is referring to. Perhaps, he has succeeded enough in his illusions that his build’s similarities to Thenerassan’s are not apparent at all. And the more he looks, the more he thinks that the man  _is_  bulkier than him. More meat to his biceps, to his thighs, perhaps. His face is differently; perilously more beautiful, Thenvunin finds himself thinking. His skin is nicer, his hair more supple.

His hand still clasped in his lover’s. Who has not yet shown even the slightest sign of objection.

Perhaps, Thenvunin consoles himself, he has inspired a trend without realizing it.

“Yes, well. I am a figure of considerable influence,” he says.

Thenerassan’s expression twists, aura wavering for just a moment. But then it passes, as Uthvir nods in cordial agreement, and then even goes so far as to offer a bow. The sunlight catches on some unexpected notes of gold in their outfit, and Thenvunin’s gaze drifts to the sharp points of their free hand. He feels a little warmer. Undoubtedly a product of the sun glinting off of so many polished facets at the sides of the streets.

“Just so. We will not keep you, I think. You probably have many matters yet to see to,” Uthvir says.

Thenvunin clears his throat, and adjusts his collar.

“I do,” he says, even though the only pressing matter at the moment is a fabricated errand. He has an unfinished board game in his chambers at the palace. A solitary endeavour – practicing strategy, of course. Good opponents are difficult to come by.

Thenerassan offers him a faint nod, and Uthvir guides him away. Down a nearby side street, and off in the general direction of Mana’Din’s city holdings. Thenvunin watches them go. Watches as Thenerassan moves in closer still, and Uthvir’s hand finally releases his, only to work its way around his waist instead. It is the incongruity, Thenvunin decides, that has taken him aback. One would expect such a couple of such rumoured fondness to be more… similar. And of course, the resemblance was wholly unexpected.

He shall have to see if he can’t make some inquiries. Uthvir only specified a ‘parent’ as a potential relative to Thenvunin – that could be either his great aunt, or cousin, or neither of them. Perhaps he should write to his father.

Perhaps, with the matter of familial affairs so clearly in need of investigating, his father will actually  _respond._

Thenvunin stares until the pair are out of sight – only because he is lost in thought, of course. As they turn the corner, moving out of the shadow of a nearby building, the sunlight strikes them again. And Thenvunin is struck by the notion that he is seeing some stray dream of his, walking away. Something he has tried and tried to capture, in all his romantic pursuits, and unfinished tales. It pulls at him, strangely. Makes him feel inexplicably bereft, as he stands in the sunlight, and finally feels as strained and over-wound as Melarue’s observations had implied.

He shakes his head at himself.

What is he doing? Standing on a public street, imagining after the love lives of strangers? How indecorous. With a deep breath, he straightens his shoulders, and heads off again.

 

~

 

The expedition into some of the further, harsher regions of Mana’Din’s territory – of what was once  _Falon_ ’Din’s territory – takes two years.

In truth, it is a venture that Uthvir probably should have made decades ago. But there were always other tasks that could be done. Things that would not take them away from Thenvunin for such virtually guaranteed, long stretches of time.

But it has come to the point, now, where Uthvir no longer fears too much that Thenvunin will be left vulnerable in Mana’Din’s territories. He is at the Hidden Estate, with Lavellan, and the refugees there, and Mana’Din will spending at least several months ‘wintering’ at her supposed indulgence as well. Two years is not really so much time, when it comes down to it. Thenvunin is highly-ranked and well-respected, now, and he and Lavellan can look after one another. They always have.

None of that means it is an easy venture for Uthvir, however.

They know this region.

In one reality, this region had housed a retreat that had been highly favoured by Falon’Din. An isolated spire, nestled atop one of the better focal points of magical energy in the territory. A natural font that could have, in more ideal circumstances, provided the foundations for an entire city. Falon’Din had turned it into a funnel for himself, however. A dark and claustrophobic place where he paid endless tribute to his own grandeur, bringing a sacrificial victim every year, at summer’s end, and gathering any energy that had been collected from his vaults, to flush himself with more power than he could ever actually hold onto. But for days afterwards he would be radiating it,  _bathing_  in it, and Uthvir…

Uthvir has memories, of this place, in that other world.

In this world, the place had served similar ends, though it had apparently never gone through the same ‘honeymoon’ period that occurred after Glory’s forced embodiment. Falon’Din had used it in preparation for the assault on him, hastily, and so the area had become rife with corrupted spirits and distorted creatures, and unpredictable magical phenomenon that left Mana’Din with little choice but to simply cordon off the whole slice of land until it – hopefully – began to stabilize somewhat on its own.

A very ‘evanuris’ approach, Uthvir thinks. Lock it in a box and hope for the best. Though, at times, there really is not much else to be done.

They know secrets about this place, though, in the end. The terrain and the focal points in the territory. Fifty years ago they drew Mana’Din a map, roughly hashed out of borrowed memories. Not a pleasant experience itself. But Mana’Din had gone and cleared out some of the larger issues, and Uthvir has always been the logical choice to go and make a proper assessment, subsequent to that. Though Mana’Din has assured them on numerous occasions that there is no need for them to; that she will handle it again. But there are many, many issues on Mana’Din’s schedules, and this region presents an opportunity that could greatly strengthen the entire territory – one that, truly, they should not simply be sitting on.

If the magic in the region, and the spirits, can be stabilized, and if they are still strong enough, then a new settlement could be planned. More elves could be given leave to have children, or to help establish a new city, better in keeping with their own peculiarities and traditions. More farmland could be opened up. Or, if not that, then at least a great deal of energy could potentially be scavenged, and new pathways for the eluvians might be opened up.

But to do that, Uthvir has to take a team, and go through the area piece by piece. Even getting to it takes a month’s worth of climbing and hiking from the nearest village. The region is a vale, nestled between the roots of the winding mountain pass that stretches off into Dirthamen’s territories. A glittering blue lake is nestled in the lower quarter of it, visible from the pathways that they have to cut through the nearest pass. The lake had been dammed, before Mana’Din’s own excursion determined that it was safe enough to let the run-off flow back out of the vale, so long as a few precautions against distorted spirits and creatures were taken. The signs of flooding have more or less faded by the time Uthvir arrives – though they know that, ostensibly, the Vale was more water than not when elven eyes last fell upon it.

They have six apprentices with them. All of them skilled at combat and scouting, and good at keeping level heads.  For two of them, this will be their first time spending more than a year without contact with their families. The other four are older – some even older than Uthvir – and more seasoned in such things. As they make their way into the vale, Uthvir splits them into two groups of three, and assigns a region to each party. They will meet back at the pass in two months’ time, to share their reports and decide upon further courses of action.

Neither group’s range takes them within the grounds of Falon’Din’s spire.

That is not incidental.

Uthvir goes there themselves. It had been underwater, before. Even now it is a swampier region than they recall; rotted trees curling up from waterlogged roots, and snapping beasts hiding in the shallows of the lake’s furthest reaches. It takes them six days to get to the tower. The water around the base of it is hip-height, and it looks almost like the rigid tendril of some lake monster – curling up towards the sky. Ready to slam downwards and snap the bones of whatever prey animal has ventured too close.

But there are no animals. Not around it, not in the water, not within a mile, it seems.

A sign that could go many ways.

The eluvian that had once stood in a front courtyard, near lake waters that Uthvir recalls as red rather than blue, is now barely visible over the top of the water. It is dull and dormant. The tower doors are sealed, and no amount of physical force will get them to budge. In the end, their first attempt at magic in the region involves blasting them open. The spell comes easily, rushing out and smashing through the rotted framework, and leaving telltale whispers and tingles in the air around them.

They wait.

The broken, blackened doorway leads off into darkness. But nothing emerges.

They should go inside, they know. Go inside. Tear out the altars, as is standard, now. Look for any remains that have been left untended for too long. Check the atmosphere of the rooms, the stability of the tower. Mana’Din has said that regardless of what happens, she intends to tear the entire thing down, if possible. They are permitted to assist in that venture; to start deconstructing the place.

_He is in there._

He is not. He is sealed away in the Dreaming. Far from here, far from this entire territory.

It takes them two days to get past the tower threshold.

Inside the air is dank and stale. The massive entryway is as they recollect; a rounded chamber that stretches all the way to the top of the spire. The only windows are so high up that the light barely feels like it trickles down. They reach a hand upwards, and recall… seeing the light through the barriers of fingers. The incongruity, of being the fingers, instead of the light. As if they were watching the scene from the wrong side.

They drop their hand, and let Fear take the memory.

There is, of course, an altar in the room.

It is the only piece of furnishing in the entryway. Falon’Din had not been fond of benches, chairs, or other places that might encourage his followers to feel comfortable, or inclined to rest. There are tapestries, woven with symbols of death and testaments to Falon’Din’s grandeur. The materials, Uthvir thinks, can be used. There is woven starlight and ensorcelled thread, and they think it would be fitting for Mana’Din’s people to pluck them all apart, string by string, and weave them anew into ropes and embroidery and bootlaces. They pull them down off of the walls, starting with the one to the left of the entryway, and stacking them onto the elevated patch of floor behind the altar. To keep them off of the wet floor.

The tapestries are large and heavy, and it takes them the better part of a day just to gather them all. Uprooting the altar is actually a quicker process. Uthvir’s magic comes easily, again, and they tear out the bolts for the binding chains, and blast the stone with alternating intensities of heat and cold until it  breaks apart easily. The sigils are still strong, and resist being unmade. But even though that ends up being very  _tiring,_  it does not take much time to do.

It is dark, when they leave the tower. The last wisps of light gone, as they sweep up the tapestries. They only manage to bring three to their little camp before they decide to leave the rest for tomorrow, when the daylight returns. Even Fear can only see so far into the murky depths of the flooded lake.

One of the tapestries has woven sunlight in it. Little patches used to denote Falon’Din’s hair.

Uthvir plucks them out carefully, by firelight. The spellwork stings their fingertips in reproach, but they collect each strand, and leave the woven Falon’Din bald as they burn the softly-glowing threads.

They trail a hand through their own hair, as they watch their campfire flicker.

Around midnight, they douse it. The clouds have cleared a path for the moon, and the light is better that way. Uthvir hunts through the brush around the lake, out of the shadow of the tower. They catch a nug, which is no great feat, but the animal seems normal enough. They check its meat, organs, bones, all of it, and by morning they have a decent meal and a better outlook on the region’s prospects.

They return to the tower to find that it is still perilously silent, though.

Beyond the entryway, there are more empty rooms. Most of what had been in the servants’ quarters has rotted away. Some of the flooding has gotten into the foundations there, and cramped rooms have become dank, windowless pools. The furniture in the dining hall has fared better, being made of materials that had to be ‘fine enough’ to grace Falon’Din’s gaze. Enchanted bonework and statuary, a high table carved from dragonbone, chandeliers dripping with blood red rubies. It takes the rest of the week to scavenge it all. Uthvir unfolds the cart they had brought along, and makes determinations on what is too heavy to bring; sorting it out and putting it where any future expeditions can gain easy access to it all. Chairs and tables and statuary; the dining hall becomes a storeroom of things that can be dismantled and remade.

The rest, they destroy.

They uproot their second altar, and destroy the tasteless decorations that could never be repurposed. They move to tear up the chain post near to the elevated seat at the high table, but it is not there. Their gaze skitters, baffled, over the empty stonework, before their mind catches up with them.

This is a different world.

A different tower. Glory was never here, and Falon’Din never…

It is strangely disquieting, in an unexpected way. Not that they wish the same fate had befallen Glory in this time. They are not so cruel. But those memories are disconnected enough, that when they fail to find the chain post, their mind… trips. Stumbling over the notion that it did not happen. How do they apply a reality that no longer exists here? In another world, the spire is still standing, and Falon’Din is still ruling.

In this one, they may tear it down, but it… it does not have the chain posts…

The moment passes.

Uthvir goes back to work.

There are more like it, of course. They let Fear slink up and take more control, filling out the dark spaces in the tower. Assessing the magical energies, searching for stray spirits. Falon’Din’s chambers are so different from what they recall that they are, at first, surprised to think that any of his priests might have been granted such opulent living quarters. It is only when they are halfway through that the layout strikes them, and they realize where they actually are.

In a way, they are almost glad for that. They are halfway through dismantling the place when realization strikes, and that makes it much easier to simply carry on with things.

A week  before their two months are up, they find the remains.

Unsurprisingly, they are in the ‘cap’ of the spire. The chamber in the highest portion of the building, where the wind whips through odd openings to create sounds like distant and haunting screams. Uthvir barely gets into the room before they withdraw again. It is close to the end of the day, and they have to head back to the pass, they know, so that is what they do. Going back to their camp, and then packing up the first load of what can be easily taken from the vale.

They have suspicions that one or both of the younger scouts will withdraw before the mission is done. Probably not  _yet,_  but the six month margin seems likely. They can secure some goods at the base camp near the pass, and if anyone leaves early, they can take one of the elks and a load of goods. Otherwise, they should still probably move as much as they can towards the pass; if it is safe enough, then adventurous souls from the nearest settlement can set out to collect them, and start putting it all to use.

The other two groups both report back – one comes a day late, but that is not really too unexpected. The terrain in the eastern parts of the vale are, they report, a mess of rockslides and instability, though the magic is good there, as well. The western segments seem to be housing most of the wildlife and clustered spirits. Some are aggressive, and Uthvir almost considers sending the western team to the tower to finish up there and tending to that part of the vale themselves. But their apprentices seem cautious enough, and there are still too many potential unknowns at the tower.

And they are not certain if they entertain the notion because the spirits and creatures are striking them as dangerous, or because they simply do not want to go back.

In the end, they establish another two-month meeting at the pass, and return.

Despite the open tower doors, none of the wildlife has taken advantage of the free shelter and moved inside. Uthvir finishes up in the other rooms, and then discovers basement chambers that they had no knowledge of. Storerooms stocked with sealed goods that are still – well,  _good._  Some of them are flooded, of course, but there are jars of preserves and casks of wine, mead, and even wrapped wheels of cheese and meat that have been sealed off well enough to be unaffected by the water.

Some have not fared so well, of course. But it has been long enough that the rot has given way to fungus colonies, passing the point of putrescence and moving on to minor ecosystems. Uthvir pulls out what they can, checking the seals and tossing back whatever seems compromised, and in the end it prove to be an undertaking that eats up a full month. They recollect the lavish feasts Falon’Din would glut himself on, and suppose that when he last came to the spire, its servants must have been anticipating a customary visit, and supplied for it accordingly. The foods they gather are not merely staples meant to feed the staff, but  _luxuries._  They find dragon’s blood wine, and wyvern eggs. Delicately sealed pies from artisans in Arlathan, and game from Andruil’s territories, and even halla meat in carefully sealed packages marked with Ghilan’nain’s emblem.

Foods that might appease some of the more lamentable numbers among Mana’Din’s advisors. Foods that could be worth a considerable amount in trades, or even offered as returned gifts to the likes of Andruil, Ghilan’nain, Sylaise… they can think of many uses for this find, and it is perfectly reasonable to spend a good deal of time on it.

The corpses will keep.

They have already done so, for much longer than a month.

They secure the food in the dining hall. If the wildlife intends to stay away, then there is no reason for Uthvir not to take advantage of that. The wines, they think, can stay until the next expedition comes with more people – the hall doors can be barricaded – but the rest can go with them back to base camp, and then whether or not anyone asks to leave, they will send it all back down to the settlement with the two youngers members of this venture.

But finally the basement rooms are as cleared as Uthvir can make them, and the top of the spire looms expectantly.

There is nothing up there but bones.

Well.

Possibly there are also corrupted spirits, or some kind of heinous magical disruption.

_He is there._

No.

No, he is not. And even if he was, it would be this world’s Falon’Din. This world’s Falon’Din does not know Uthvir. Not even as Glory’s body.

They make their way up to the top room again. Navigating questionable stairwells, until they come onto the landing, and then press through the massive double doors and into the sacrificial apex once more.

The room is large.

Only a little smaller than the front entryway, though it is much more crowded. Uthvir steps carefully into the room, with its over-sized altar. Bones caught in chains bound around the base of it. Wrapped in finery that has outlasted flesh, and this fabric, they know, they will not be plucking apart. There will be no reclaiming of the shimmering tunics and gowns and leggings, armaments and other attire that has not fallen to dust.

The chamber smells only of the wind, screaming through the rooftop.

But there is light, and not just the light spilling through the windows. Scattered, broken shimmering rests around the base of the altar, and Uthvir comes up short at that. Pieces of some fractured spirit – or several – rest in nebulous shards, caught in the void between being broken and being used up.

Falon’Din must have been in a hurry indeed, to leave such scraps behind.

Uthvir navigates the piles of bodies – the spire’s entire staff, it seems, and more besides – and makes their way to the altar. The wind cries and the light changes, and they wonder if the unease that has been dragging itself down their spine this entire time is entirely their own, or some projection of fear coming from these shards.

And they  _are_  Fear. Maybe they were not that before, but they are now. Tiny, barely-realized little fragments of guttering terror.

_Me._

They could not be  _their_  Fear. That spirit is in Andruil’s lands, if it is anywhere. But reasoning does not seem to matter much, as they venture a careful hand out, and feel a rush of horrible kinship to the broken things. To the crystalline fragments that undulate between uneasy, crimson glowing, and bone white terror, and defensive darkness. The very base and barest of emotions. Uthvir gathers them up, and pulls them free from the altar; from the cycles of breaking and feeding into themselves that the sigils carved into it have kept them trapped in.

They do not last for very long, beyond that field. A single moment, like a long exhalation, and then they are dust.

The chamber goes silent in a way that it had not – could not – go silent before. Even the wind finally quiets. The light turns only to the brittle shafts leaking in through the windows, and a hundred skulls lie quietly against the floor.

Uthvir is silent, too, as they pull the bodies from their chains. Stacking the bones carefully with their belongings, before dismantling the altar. This one takes longer. It is tied in with the spire, with the area, and they are not certain, at first, that they can bring it down without bringing the tower down along with it. After a few days of trying to figure it out, they end up carrying the bodies out, first. They light a pyre in the wilds, beyond the spire’s shadow, and spend days burning them all to ash. Scattering the ash to the air.

He does not own them anymore, at least.

It does not take long for the local wildlife to start moving in, once the spirit shards have crumbled. The spirits still seem shy. Uthvir supposes that so much time spent hearing the equivalent of the death cry of a spirit being sacrificed, over and over again, would make any of them wary of venturing closer, even in the silence that followed. But before long there are birds, and frogs, and scurrying things, venturing into the front entrance and the open basements.

They double-check that the food stores are secured, and otherwise leave the creatures be, as a good sign.

Four months into the expedition, and they want to go home, now.

They could, they suppose. They have assessed the tower, which is liable to be the worst of it, but there are still things to be done, and there is really no reason for them to not keep with it. Things have been going well. The other two groups both beat them to the meeting point at the pass, but only because their burden of foodstuffs slows them down more than they expected; the cart they brought along straining beneath the weight of all the jars and cans and containers.

The younger apprentices are fascinated, and do not object when Uthvir announces the change in plans to send them down to the settlement. They give clear instructions on how to handle the valuable cargo, and make certain its value is known – that this is food which is fancy enough to be traded, and therefore should not be consumed or unsealed by any hungry apprentices who are sick of foraging and trail rations – and then send them off with both of the expedition’s elks, in the end.

The village manager is sharp-minded, and Uthvir is fairly certain they will know how to handle the sudden arrival of a pair of scouts and a multitude of precious foodstuffs.

When they go back to the tower for the third time, it is mostly so that they can begin ferrying more and more things to the base camp, and finish tearing down every last sigil in the region. It is tedious and exhausting work, and by the time half a year has gone by, they are sick of water, sick of wilderness, sick of seeing that tower in the distance. The apprentices they had sent off come back, and the western team reports some trouble with a very entrenched Spirit of Stagnation. Uthvir goes with them, leaving the spire to the hands of demolition experts and future expeditions at last, and it takes them four months to draw the creature out, an hour to break it into a fine mist, and then another four hours to devote to the brooding fury they feel when they uncover a vast labyrinth of elven-made tunnels beneath its lair.

The caves lead into an unfinished spirit vault.

One of the more secretive kind, laced with traps, buried beyond where the flooding had taken place – because of course it is, because why would fate have been kind enough to simply drown the thing. The good news is that the terrified spirits that have been caught up in its web are freed without much damage or further stress. The bad news is that it takes them fully a total six months of digging, stripping, dismantling, uncovering, and siphoning to tear up the whole mess. Even just to get it to the point where they can collapse part of a mountain into it without having to worry about what might burrow its way through the rock in a hundred years.

And in the midst of that, the other half of their expedition fails to report to the camp at the pass, and after a week of waiting, they have to set out to follow the markers and spend several intermediary months digging  _them_  out of the rockslide that trapped them. The only bright spot is that no one was badly injured.

By the time they finish mapping the vale, it has been twenty months, and Uthvir has had very little time to consider things like haircuts, and would not have been in a good enough mood for  _any_  of those months to let any of their apprentices near them with a pair of scissors.

They want to  _go home._

The trip through the crossroads is a visceral relief. Their gear has held up very well, but even they can grow tired of wearing the same two outfits for nearly as many years. Their sleeping habits have not benefited from the trip, but they are still surprised at how they feel when they come through the eluvian outside of Daran’s palace, to be greeted with the sight of flowering fruit trees and the market road and Thenvunin, and Lavellan.

Thenvunin, in soft golds and red, alive and well and unharmed. Aura bursting with welcome, with relief and touches of concern, but it is directed outwards. Did he worry about them? They went to great lengths to try not to worry over him, for their part. Lavellan is in much the same state, though. She is wearing a green dress – Thenvunin’s encouragement, they suspect – and she is fine. Not harmed, not frightened, not brimming with untold stress. Their relief at seeing Uthvir return is for Uthvir’s own sake. Not for the added safety it might bring them.

They should embrace them, they know. And when Lavellan folds her arms around them, they wish to. But part of them also bristles. More aware, after so long and in such a state, of how close her hands come to their back, and of the confines of her grip. Thenvunin is worse, even though they endeavour to push past the feeling. Fear is inarticulate of it; the discomfort is an echo, and not one they are certain that they can do away with.

But Thenvunin is mindful of the other people gathered around. Friends and family of Uthvir’s apprentices, mostly, especially the youngest two. He pulls back after only a moment, and brushes a hand across their cheek.

“Look at the state of your hair,” he tuts.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“There were not a great many salons in the vale,” they drawl, and manage to edge a step back. It is long, they know. It likes to grow, likes to try and force its way back into being fair and fine and straight. They probably should have hacked it off before they arrived, come to it – and it is probably not a good sign for their state of being that they did not think to. Thenvunin tuts again, and makes some comment about attending to it. Uthvir barely notes it. They are glad to be back, but they do not care to linger in the street, either.

“Papa,” Lavellan says. “We should get them home.”

“Of course,” Thenvunin agrees, immediately. His gaze darting over the street, and then he takes Uthvir by the arm. And that is alright. Lavellan, perceptive child, walks at their side but does not touch them. She asks them about the expedition, instead. They tell her what information is fit to be overheard, and it is, in fact, most of it. The waters have receded, though they are still past the point they had been prior to the dam. The energies in the region have more or less settled down from a clawing mess to a wound which has now been lanced. Falon’Din’s structures are fit to be torn down, and while Uthvir is not an agricultural expert, they would put fair odds on the ground being more than suitable for  _some_  kind of farming. An eluvian will be sorely needed, regardless, though, as traversing the pass with goods would be an arduous affair.

Returning to their chambers – to the familiar rooms, and the garden, and its birds, and the baths, and all the things they have built in this new world, is a relief. Fear quiets, and Lavellan goes to get them dinner from the dining hall. Thenvunin follows them into their bedchamber, and then all but melts over them.

“I missed you,” he says.

Uthvir sighs, and rests their forehead against his shoulder, in turn.

“I missed you, too,” they admit. The tense feeling is much less intense, in private. Thenvunin is not Falon’Din, for all that he is big and fair-haired, and it is easy to remember that when he is leaning into their arms and resting his own atop their shoulders, pliant and sweet and radiating emotions that are utterly alien to the old memories this trip has dredged up.

Two years.

That is barely a blink. It is amazing that it can feel like too much.

They tilt their lips towards his jaw, but end up breathing in the scent of his hair more than anything terribly licentious.  After a few minutes Thenvunin prods at them, asking if they want to get out of their armour.

“In a hurry?” they quip.

He shakes his head at them, and does not even huff at their tone.

“Lavellan will be back soon with food. You should get comfortable,” he insists. “You need to rest.”

“I  _am_  comfortable,” they reply, trailing a hand up his back. And they are. But Thenvunin fusses and frets and plucks at their armour, and finally they concede that it  _would_  be nice to have a change of clothes. He tries to help but they successfully manage to chase him off with a request for some of the summer wine from the dining hall – go and make certain Lavellan gets some, she might not think of it – and then they peel off their armour, and move into their closet. Back to the wall as they change into a fresh undershirt and leggings, tight footwraps that weave their way up their calves; and then a long-sleeved shirt, and a vest, before they pluck the pieces of one of their lighter suits of leather armour from a chest by the closet door.

It has been well-kept in their absence.

They pull on bracers and boots, strap themselves in their cuirass, and feel at once refreshed and suitably dressed. When Thenvunin comes back, they are busy tying their hair into a knot at the back of their head.

He comes over, and stands at their back shoulder. And reaches out to run the strands between his fingers.

And Uthvir remembers-

_There is the table. Vanity. Not a spirit, a type of table. Hands that work to keep the body in a condition acceptable to its owner. Not them. Him. He owns it. They are simply trapped here, as their nails are cleaned, and a brush is passed through their hair. Strands that are caught in their collar pulled free with a sharp feeling against their scalp. The teeth of brush scrapes over skin. Between strands. Pulling out long tendrils that look almost right; almost like light._

_And then **he**  is there. Hair the same colour, and the tentative feeling of acceptance recoils, turns to dust as he reaches out and plucks up a segment of hair. Running it between his fingers, as he leans down. His own dripping off his shoulders. Mingling with the strands. His servants remove themselves in a hurry. Brush gone, hands gone, except for his._

_“Did you like my gift?” he asks._

_What he calls gifts are not gifts. They are not fitting._

_“No,” they say. The word comes out small. All of their words come out small, now._

_The grip tightens, turns fierce, and the tiny pinpricks of unpleasantness from before come back in a surge as he makes a fist and pulls and sends them sprawling to the floor. Anger, hot, accusation, and they do not understand but they know he is about to hurt them more…_

Fear swallows the memory.

It feels as though it has to fight to get it back down, somehow. But Uthvir has no intention of fighting the impulse at all, as the memory has them frozen. And it is only when it is gone that they find themselves back in their rooms. Thenvunin’s fingers holding strands of hair that are not bright, that he lets go as his manner dips into concern.

“Uthvir?” he asks.

Still looming over their shoulder.

They turn away from the mirror they had been using. Turn and face him and put more space between them.

“I am fine,” they assure him. They are. They are as safe as they have ever been, in any life, right now. It is just a struggle to remember that. To adjust, again, to proximity and gestures. They try and pick their demeanour up off of the floor, as Thenvunin frowns at them, and looks at their hair again.

“Does it bother you?” he asks. “I have never seen you grow it out before.”

“It is nothing. Can we not put so much focus on it?” they ask. “I will cut it off after dinner. A few moments and then it will be back to normal.”

Thenvunin’s frown only deepens.

“I can cut it for you,” he offers. “I understand if you would rather not have a stylist so near. But you trim my hair often enough, it would only be fitting for me to return the favour.”

They imagine having him loom over them with something sharp in hand, and a rush of unease passes through them.

“No, thank you,” they say. “I appreciate the offer, but I would rather just take care of it myself.”

“Do not be silly, Uthvir. This is not the wilderness. You cannot just go hacking off your hair with a knife and hoping for the best,” he insists.

Unease rushes towards frustration.

“Why not? It worked for  _you,”_  they snap.

Thenvunin recoils, and Uthvir immediately regrets it. Their skin is hot and their nerves are twisted, and a sharp tongue served them well enough with apprentices scouting in dangerous territory, but they should not lash their beloved with it in his own home. They fold their arms, tied up in the aftermath of an unpleasant memory, robbing them of what they want most right now which  _is_  to have him close. It  _is_  to relax, and rest, and be comfortable.

Not to hurt him.

Thenvunin looks down. His cheeks are flushed, and not in the fun way.

“I am sorry,” he says.

They shake their head.

“No, do not – that was uncalled for. From myself, as a reaction,” they say. “I did not mean to… I know it is not the same.”

“Is it not?” Thenvunin wonders, a little too shrewdly for their liking.

Uthvir lets out a breath.

“It is just – it has been a long while.”

That sentiment does not seem to reassure him. But before they can expand upon it, the main entrance opens. Lavellan is back, with food, and so the conversation is postponed as they go and eat. Letting their daughter command the conversation as she ventures more questions, and enlightens them as to the goings-on that have happened in their absence. Nothing particularly noteworthy, by the sounds of it. Sylaise threw a gala. Mana’Din found a suitable excuse to avoid it. No new residents have come through  _the_  Eluvian.

By the time Lavellan must go to attend some evening duties, Thenvunin has left his meal virtually untouched, but Uthvir is feeling calmer.

They bid their daughter goodnight. She tells them that she will be staying in the city proper, in one of the apartments by the orchards, and if they have need of her then they can come and find her there. Uthvir kisses her forehead, and closes the door behind her, and lets out a long breath as Thenvunin hovers at their left.

“Hethim is quite handsome,” Thenvunin notes.

Uthvir blinks at him.

Hethim. One of the more experienced apprentices to accompany them on their trip. Good at trapping, terrible at shooting. Uthvir has honestly seen children with better aim. Not entirely his fault, they would say – he has very narrow shoulders, complete with that fashionable ‘Arlathan’ look. Socially speaking he’s an invaluable agent, though, having spent several decades in Sylaise’s camps before being gifted to Ghilan’nain upon her ascension. Ghilan’nain, in turn, gave him to Mana’Din, and while Hethim does not have an abundance of social grace, he does seem to  _comprehend_  it, and has a very unique perspective on the transitioning which most of Mana’Din’s populace has gone through.

Uthvir considers the odds that Thenvunin is trying to branch out, and weighs them against the odds that he is trying to make them jealous, and finds both possibilities more or less unfitting to the situation.

“I suppose?” they allow.

Thenvunin lifts his chin upwards.

“I understand, if – we have never had an exclusive arrangement, after all. And this was your first time getting some distance from things. I understand if you have re-evaluated and… and realized that you are tired of me.”

Uthvir stares at him.

Thenvunin’s throat bobs, and he does not quite meet their gaze.

“ _Thenvunin,”_  they say.

“I do,” he whispers. “I do understand, it is not as if you were ever… I have never wanted you to feel, to just be – be  _obligated,_  even though I know you… you do…”

They move closer. On steadier ground with his insecurities than their own, as they reach for his cheek, and watch all of his bravado unravel itself. His eyes water and his shoulders slump, and when they brush a thumb across his cheekbone, he leans into it.

“Thenvunin, I have not had anyone as close as this in months,” they tell him. “The last time I touched someone, it was to pull them out of a mire. I have been on edge, and tightly wound, and that is why I am… jumpy. It is not that I do not want  _you._  I have missed you, very much.” Leaning up, they press a kiss to his lips. A few of his tears slide down his cheeks, but he drifts towards him as if he has been starving for such touches. They wonder if he  _has_ been. If he has spent the past two years missing this kind of contact.

Perhaps they should discuss this. Uthvir may be possessive but they are not unfair; if Thenvunin feels comfortable trading affection with someone else, then he should know that they will not constrain him, nor lash out at his lovers.

Well.

Unless said lovers deserve it, anyway.

But that is probably a conversation for level heads, not distraught hearts. They deepen the kiss, and Thenvunin curls his hands atop their shoulders. Keeping his touch well away from their back, and their hair, as they wrap their arms around him. They pull back from it only to begin leading him to the bedroom.

Thenvunin hesitates, at the doorway.

“Perhaps we should just…” he begins, and swallows. He gestures, but Uthvir catches his meaning.

“I am tired. I think I would like to sleep,” they say, and that is true enough.

Thenvunin lets out a breath.

“Shall I join you?” he asks.

The thought does not make them uneasy; they nod, and smile reassuringly, lacing their fingers with his as they tug him into the bedroom. Thenvunin forgoes his usual ritual of nightclothes, simply sliding out of his current attire, and Uthvir watches him. Admiring his familiar beauty, before they pull off their armour, and join him in the bed. Laying out next to him, watching pale strands of hair spill across the pillow.

After a moment, they reach up, and brush their fingers over some of it.

It is fluffier. Thicker. Softer, or perhaps that is just their perception.

And it smells like lavender.

They breathe it in, letting their eyes slide shut. Fear drifting off, prodding at the wards they triple-checked before they left, but of course, it has only been two years. They are fine. Everything is fine, in fact. They are home, and in bed, and Thenvunin is near.

They wake up the next morning to find themselves using his chest for a pillow. The tie has come out of their hair, and it is itching irritably against the side of their neck. Ruining an otherwise comfortable position, enough so that after a few moments they ease themselves out of Thenvunin’s arms. He does not wake as they pad silently across the bedroom, and retrieve a knife from their desk. Testing its sharpness a moment, before moving off to the closet in search of a mirror.

When they unearth one, and turn back, they find Thenvunin sitting up. Frowning at them a little bit.

“Go back to sleep,” they instruct.

“But I just…” Thenvunin begins, and then stops himself. Trailing off awkwardly, and then nodding and slumping back down against the pillows. His eyes still fixed on Uthvir, as Uthvir settles down at the chair behind their desk, and positions the mirror. Pausing only to brush back their hair, before they take it up in a handful and…

Stop.

Let out a breath, and look over at Thenvunin. Who is now staring at the bedsheets, still frowning slightly. Voicing no objections.

They let out another breath, and put down the knife.

“You said you had scissors?” they ask.

His head shoots up.

“I do,” he confirms. “I know how to use them, as well. If you… I mean, it is fine if you are not comfortable with it, but I can be very gentle. I know how you usually wear your hair. I can have it back in order before breakfast.”

Yes, they know he can be gentle. A rueful smile turns up the corners of their lips.

They shake their head, and his expression falls, just a bit.

“Fine,” they permit.

Thenvunin blinks.

“Did you just say ‘fine’?” he checks.

“Well. It is not as if I do not trust you,” Uthvir allows.

They are rewarded with a quite a view, then, as Thenvunin makes his way out of the bed. He seems to realize that this is a rare offer, as he pulls on a few of the nearest articles of clothing – enough to qualify as ‘decent’ should any wayward daughters arrive, they suppose – and then hurries off towards his own room. Returning a moment later with another, larger mirror, and a pair of scissors, and a look of gentle assuredness that is… actually, very fetching on him.

“I will be careful,” he promises, again.

They get up and move the chair out a little bit, so that he will have room to move around.

“I know,” they promise him back, before dropping their chin into their hand.

This is probably not going to be their most pleasant moment of intimacy.

But as Thenvunin carefully kneels beside them, no longer looming, and assesses the strands of their hair, it is very different from anything they can recall.

 _You are different_ , they remind themselves. Focusing on that, and fighting back a grimace, as Thenvunin plucks up a long lock of their hair.

Fear voices no dissent, and does not so much as bristle at the first snip.

 

~

 

Uthvir does not usually let it get this bad.

…Usually.

It may be that they are straining themselves more than is typical, of late, but in fairness, their duties to Mana’Din are much more extensive than their duties to Andruil had ever been. Andruil had not been trying to rebuild a territory or maintain control of an unruly populace or deal with more than the typical political squabbles of any leader of the people. She had not attempted to maintain power without committing to a system based on slaughter and sacrifice; quite the opposite.

Even so. Uthvir does not usually let it get this bad. But they have been pouring over their reports for longer than is, perhaps, prudent, and then Thenvunin opens the office door more suddenly than they are expecting, and they stand up because Fear thinks it is an attack and the world tilts and…

A moment later they are looking up at a very concerned Thenvunin.

From entirely the wrong angle.

_We blacked out._

Oh,  _joy._

They blink, and run a hand down their face.

“I am alright.”

That is, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Thenvunin gets that  _look._  Granted, that is usually a look that is directed towards Lavellan. Generally when she has sustained some minor injury or another. But today, apparently, Uthvir gets it.

“You fainted!” Thenvunin says, and  _lifts them up,_  which, on the one hand, saves them the trouble of attempting that whole ‘standing’ thing again, but is also very disorienting and not entirely pleasant right now. The room tilts and they cover their eyes with their hand.

Which probably does not help deter the image of them as weak.

“I did not faint, I just – erred. Briefly,” they insist.

“Should I fetch a healer? Have you been poisoned? What did you eat last, think carefully,” Thenvunin prods, as Uthvir tries to calm him down. This effort mostly manifests in the form of them patting his shoulder and saying ‘no, no’, softly, under their breath.

“I have not had anything to eat since yesterday, and only water to drink, it is not poison,” they say.

They can  _feel_  Thenvunin staring at them, aghast.

Why would he be…?

Oh.

Right.

Eating.

They probably should have done that at some point today.

In fairness, it is not usually much of a matter for them to skip a meal or ten. As long as they do not dehydrate… and over-exhaust themselves…

Hmm.

Perhaps more than one error in judgement was made, they mentally concede, as Thenvunin explodes into a mess of fretting.

This is going to take a while for him to get over, isn’t it?

They peer up at his expression, the whirling eddies of worry and frustration, the firm downward turn of his brows, and, yes. This is going to be A Thing, now. There are going to be Interventions. Thenvunin is going to start turning up at random intervals with food and concerned faces, until he is convinced that they can look after themselves.

…He is probably going to conscript several apprentices to help him.

There are going to be people bringing Uthvir  _fruit platters,_  they can feel it in their bones.

What a nightmare.

 

~

 

Thenvunin is worrying about their sleeping habits again.

Between the sudden upswing in ‘have you slept’ and ‘when was the last time you ate’ and ‘here, I brought you a fruit platter’ style commentary they have been receiving of late, this is not difficult to deduce.

In fact, their sleeping habits have seen a sharp overall improvement, by their own standards. But telling Thenvunin that usually just makes him frown and dwell on the past and get morose and regretful, and Uthvir has no desire to trigger that sort of downward internal spiral. So, they put up with it. They eat sliced cheese and banana tarts, and spend a few more evenings than usual lingering with Thenvunin until he falls asleep, and they try to time their own sleeping schedules so that they will be there when he wakes – the latter achieving only modest success, as boredom and their multitude of duties usually have them up and out of bed before him.

They ravish him senseless a few times, and sleep a little more deeply themselves for it, and they swear that they can  _see_  the lightbulb going off in his head after one such incident.

“People sleep better when they are… spent,” Thenvunin muses.

“More deeply, I suspect,” Uthvir agrees, and rub their thumb over the pillow creases on his cheeks.

They are not  _quite_  expecting things to take the turn which they do. But then, it is also not entirely surprising when Thenvunin abruptly begins to increase his seduction tactics. Positioning himself provocatively whenever they retire for the evening. Wearing more crimson during the day. Actively requesting more rigorous sexual activities, and doing his very best to  _goad_  Uthvir into exerting themselves.

It is very, very transparent.

They are absolutely not complaining.

Thenvunin worries over them. Thenvunin wishes to look after them. Thenvunin reaches for them, invites their touch, their attention, bends outside the boundaries of his usual comforts, in the hopes of increasing their well-being. They will not let him bend too far. It would cruel of them. But this is something he does of his own volition, and Uthvir cannot quite describe the way it twists and settles into them, transforming into their own bittersweet adoration of him as they know they cannot truly deserve it. And so they savour it, instead, and do their best to meet it and match it.

And when Thenvunin slumps against them, sated and soft, they can almost let themselves believe that they are enough.

“Stay,” he asks.

So transparent, they think.

But after four nights of steady sleep in a row, it seems, nevertheless, to be effective.

But as much as it might be increasing their own sleeping hours, Thenvunin himself begins to flag under the efforts of his seductions. He still has own duties to attend during the day, after all, and staying up past midnight trying to lure Uthvir into a full expenditure of their energies, night after night, is beginning to take a toll. More yawning in the morning, more sleeping until Uthvir prods him awake, to make certain he can dress in time to be at his tasks.

After several more days of this, Uthvir decides that it is time to return the favour.

They inform Thenvunin that they will be staying late to see to their own duties, and thereby offer him the obvious chance to simply  _sleep._

“How late?” Thenvunin asks, frowning.

“All night, most likely,” they assure him.

It is a good plan.

It backfires, unfortunately, when Uthvir’s renewed dedication to their work coincidentally turns up a spy in the palace staff. And not one they already knew about, either. One of Mythal’s ‘former’ people, currently an advisor, and apparently still dedicated enough to their former lady to forward sensitive information to her. Uthvir had examined them thoroughly years ago, but had turned up nothing, and had assumed them to be more or less what they appeared. A mistake, it seems. The lead that brings them to the spy forces them to awaken Mana’Din, who in turn calls for most of her trustworthy people to deliberate on what course of action should be taken. Namely, Elalas and Thenvunin.

The matter is further complicated by how much the advisor potentially knows about certain projects underway. Not much, it is agreed, but still more than would be ideal to see handed over to Mythal.

In the end, it is decided that, for now, Uthvir will begin feeding the spy misinformation. An event will be contrived to legitimately remove them from some of the upcoming meetings and exchanges, and eventually Mana’Din will decide on further courses of action, as needed.

Which is all well and good, but it means that Thenvunin is up all night anyway.

And when they attempt the same tactic the next night, he is then worried that they have uncovered another spy and insists upon going with them to their offices, and stays past midnight anyway.

Finally, Uthvir decides to just tackle the matter head-on.

They set aside some time in the evening, return to their chambers, and set about running the most lavish bath they can manage. The water is warmed, and treated with oils they brought back from Arlathan. They scatter some rose petals across the surface, and set the floor panels to gently vibrating, and when Thenvunin gets home they lure him in by the simple expedient of kissing him at the doorway and saying “I drew us a bath”.

Twenty minutes later, Thenvunin is sated and limp and snoring in the pool.

The water really is very relaxing, in fact.

Uthvir gathers up the plushest towel at hand, and scoops him out of the water. Carries him to his bedroom, and folds him into the blankets and pillows. Thenvunin barely stirs, scarcely interrupts his snoring as they carefully arrange him. His skin is flushed against the smooth, creamy fabric of his sheets. Uthvir considers the scene for a moment.

“Sleep well,” they whisper, and press a soft kiss to his brow.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Dornin is the largest of Mana’Din’s cities to be located near the borders with Ghilan’nain’s lands.

It is still not a terribly large city, as it goes. Most of the original residents were gathered up for Falon’Din’s mass culling, but the outlying villages escaped the same fate, owing to the distance and lack of eluvians in many of them. The region around Dornin was scarred long before Falon’Din claimed it, having been razed during the war with the Nameless. Once verdant forest was burnt to cinders by a rogue dragon, and trap mines had been littered throughout the region. Falon’Din had been content to let the locals ‘take care of them’ - so far as Mana’Din could tell, this had meant leaving them to trigger the traps and die, and thereby disarm them. 

It was not a region that had greatly favoured its lord even before he had met with official disapproval, and so it was not a place she expected to find a cult of hold-out followers.

In hindsight, that was foolish. Dornin was one of the more poorly-organized areas in her control, and one which was, subsequent to her take-over, badly mismanaged by the first official she appointed to oversee it - the elf in question had been one of Elgar’nan’s people, high-ranking and affluent, with a good deal of history in resource management, trade, and city planning. His skillset had seemed to fit the bill, and she had been shorthanded, but that was no excuse, in the end. The man had swiftly set about establishing a corrupt regime in his assigned territory. In the end he had underestimated her attention to detail, but by then, the damage was done, and much of Dornin lived in unrest.

Typically, that unrest was bent towards anti-evanuris sentiments in general.

But as ever, the one sure thing about the subversive movements in her territories was that they never quite seemed to agree on who, what, and how they wished to be subversive. Uthvir was the one who uncovered the information, but Mana’Din herself, in the end, takes a small group into the undercity. A crumbling mess that looks like it is one wrong move away from opening up sinkholes and dropping the city’s one floating manor straight to the ground.

She mentally moves infrastructure improvements for Dornin up in her list of urgent considerations. The undercity is dangerous, but it is also  _large._  The cultists they find have built a veritable village underneath it, in the dark and damp, with a stolen eluvian. Their faces are marked with Falon’Din’s vallaslin, and they fight, when the raid begins. Few attempt to run. Some shout their lord’s name as they trigger traps with their own blood, and this is why Mana’Din came in person - the entire hide-out nearly collapses in on itself. It takes eighteen barriers to keep it up, and then the agents she has brought sweep through, killing those they must and capturing whoever they can.

The cultists have set themselves up fairly well. There is a pen of livestock, a goodly amount of supplies stolen from the city and surrounding farms. The inventory discrepancies that initially betrayed their likely existence. The bedrooms are small and dark, but there is an underground garden. She examines it for signs of Deep Roads flora or fauna, and thankfully, finds none.

Next to a garden is a barricaded room. She ventures towards it herself, disabling a multitude of traps and wards left in place. Enough to make the air tingle a little, as she finally works the door open.

She is expecting to find weapons, perhaps. Poisons, bombs, perhaps even some escaped creature or another.

There are three little beds in the room.

A pot of colourful mushrooms sits in one of the corners. There are childish drawings tacked up onto the walls. A few toys scattered here and there, many broken and worn. Light trickles down from a gleaming crystal planted into the ceiling. Mana’Din carefully takes it all in, moving slowly, now, near frozen in her surprise, as her gaze finally lands on the children huddled in the corner.

There are three of them. One barely looks old enough to even fit into the beds in the room. Her first thought is that the cultists must have had them, but this is beyond strange - it is rare, she knows, for the elves of this time to cordon off little ones together. It is seen as dangerous, older children are not expected to be responsible for the care of younger ones; that task is a special honour reserved for adults.

The littlest child is crying, but too quietly for one so small. The next youngest, maybe around four or five years of age, is the most hidden - tucked into the corner of the room behind the eldest, who is holding the toddler, and looking up at Mana’Din with a petrified gaze. Her fair hair is dirty, and there are bruises on her arms, knuckle marks on her left cheek.

The sight is shocking. It has been hundreds upon hundreds of years since Mana’Din saw a child abused. Of all the horrible things in this time, she had thought it at least  _one_  crime that was more or less escaped. The girl’s eyes are red, and her arms are tight around the sniffling toddler. 

One of the scouts calls out, and all three flinch. Mana’Din raises a hand and signals back out of the room behind her, the basic equivalent of  _shut up and get medical supplies._  It is more abrupt than usual, but she finds her heart has dropped into her stomach, and is disinclined to climb its way back out again.

Slowly, she lowers herself down to her knees, and reaches up to take off her mask.

“Hello,” she says, softly. “Do not be afraid. I am not here to hurt you.”

None of the children reply. The eldest swallows.

“My name is Lavellan. What are your names?” she asks.

No answers, still. The middle child hides his face against the back of the eldest’s shoulder. But after a few moments, the toddler begins to squirm, a little. The older girl tightens her grip, but Mana’Din is beginning to grimly suspect that one of her hands is broken - after a moment, the baby worms free, and, still crying, makes straight for Mana’Din. Still not nearly noisy enough, for a little one expecting comfort and protesting their treatment. The eldest reaches out, and opens her mouth as if to call the toddler back - scrambling up from the corner, but no sound escapes her, again.

Mana’Din frowns.

A silencing spell?

She cannot detect one. And then most of her attention is taken up by the baby reaching small, beseeching hands for her, face streaked in tears and snot. Mana’Din scoops them up, a comforting noise escaping her, directed as much to the older children as to their bold little companion.

“It is alright,” she assures them, rocking her new charge. “It is alright. You do not have to speak. You have been hurt, and my friends and I would like to help heal your injuries. Is that alright? Will you let us?”

The children seem perplexed by the question. But eventually the eldest one manages a small nod, and while they do not calm much, it is enough that Mana’Din gestures for one of the healers to come in and assist her.

The agents take the discovery of the children worse than even she does. None of them have ever seen an injured child before - not worse than a few bumps and scrapes, anyway. Mana’Din does most of the inspecting and healing herself, given the reluctance her people have towards using magic on children. She is subtle about it, as she ties bandages and insists upon setting the eldest girl’s hand - the healer on her team is cowed by such hurts on a developing body, inclined to let them heal painfully and then reset them all in a decade. Mana’Din will indulge no such needless suffering, however, and at length all three children are bandaged, fed, and watered, and drifting off in the arms of three of her agents - who are doing their utmost to keep their outrage from distressing them further.

“Take them back to Daran,” Mana’Din decides. “Have Uthvir figure out who to place them with, temporarily. I will see if I can find anymore clues as to what was going on.”

The agents begin to file out, though before they can leave, the eldest girl begins to kick up a fuss. All efforts to soothe her seem to go poorly, and after a moment she kicks her way free and goes dashing over to the livestock pens. Her expression twisting as she sees that most of their occupants have been killed; slain to fuel the defences of the lair. Mana’Din comes over, approaching carefully as the girl moves from cage to cage, tears streaming down her eyes as she finds geese and boars and nugs all lying still and bled out.

But just as Mana’Din is about to pull her away, she comes to one of the pens, and lets out a gasp. Pulling at the wire, until Mana’Din sees what has caught her attention.

At the side of a slaughtered goat, is a small newborn. Still damp from birth, barely moving onto its shaky little legs. Mana’Din waves a hand and opens the cage, and though the agents gasp and fret, she does not stop the girl from rushing in and scooping up the baby goat. More tears coming, finding a way through as she pets the tiny creature, and looks towards her, and tries to say something. Mouth moving a moment, before she bites her lip.

Then she pantomimes drinking, and gestures to the goat.

Milk.

Of course.

Mana’Din voices a command to check the stores they confiscated for goat milk, and gently coaxes the two foundlings out of the pen, and away from the blood and the slain animals. One of the agents turns up an entire crate of milk, as yet untreated, and though it takes more doing, eventually half her agents leave with three children, one baby goat, and an emergency supply of milk.

That matter at last taken care of, she begins the process of combing through the remaining rooms. Half terrified that she will find more injured children, or child corpses; but there are no more sealed doors. Only crates and drawers, bookshelves and boxes. The records she can dig up seem disjointed and surreal, and she detects the touch of a wrathful spirit in them. Talk of visions and dreams.  _Blood for Lord Falon’Din._  The answers she is seeking are not readily at hand, however. There is no convenient page of  _Journal Entry 964, today we somehow apprehended a trio of children and decided to brutalize them._

But, as the night grows long and it becomes more and more likely that this search will need to be taken up elsewhere, she begins to find allusions to  _Silence._  That seems promising. 

_Silence has promised to ease things for us. The Offerings wear the faces of children, though they are not, of course. They are the spawn of those denied Personhood by the true laws of this land. Still, the others waver. Silence will make it easier, and then they will see, the little things are only animals. Only more livestock, made to be used._

Her stomach churns.

A pact with a corrupted spirit, then, to steal the children’s voices. That may take some time to remove, and even more to recover from. And if they are the ‘spawn’ of those denied Personhood, that could mean people from the Unmarked village, or who immigrated from the camps. But children do not go missing in this time without notice. Parenthood is easy enough to obtain under her governance - well, comparatively - and there are more benefits than not to simply applying for the rights, rather than going to all the of the trouble to try and hide a pregnancy, and several decades of childrearing.

…Unless, of course, one is an insurgent hoping to smuggle their children out of her territory, she supposes. There have been a few efforts like that. Parents who took on her markings suddenly doing an about-face as soon as their children are born, not wanting to raise them in Elvhenan’s society. She supposes a few could get to that point at the very onset of pregnancy, instead. And then what? Pretend to miscarry, retract the petition, and raise the children in secret?

If there is a region in her territory where that might be done, this would be it.

She makes a mental note to investigate all of the reported miscarriages in the area, before finally arranging for all the rest of the information to be delivered back to Daran, and withdrawing.

By morning, her territory is in uproar.

And of course, it is not long before news spreads to Elgar’nan, who is having  _fits._  Children, hurt.  _Babies_  hurt. The only saving grace is that the cultists involved were irrefutable Falon’Din loyalists - he cannot pin the matter on the Nameless, though in the end, she is unable to stop him from sending Commander Victory and a score of peacekeepers to scour Dornin, looking for any signs of further child abuse, ferreting out any remaining cultists or insurgents.

In the end, though, it is one of the less fraught raids they have endured. Most of the anti-evanuris insurgents had been warned by certainly-not-Elalas to cover their tracks before she made her own raid on the cultists, and the citizens of Dornin are, for a change of pace, overall happy to help the peacekeepers check the undercity and the cellars and basements of outlying villages on the off-chance that there are yet more children suffering, somewhere.

A council is called, and that consumes much of Mana’Din’s time, as she must have an explanation on hand to avoid letting her grandparents use this to further restrict her authority over the territory. Elgar’nan, she knows, will surely demand the parents of the children’s heads on platters if they still live, so Mana’Din has Uthvir discreetly and personally handle that investigation. And officially, it is declared that the cultists illegally procreated, mistreated their own children, and were solely to blame for the entire affair.

Elgar’nan demands the remaining cultists, and to that, Mana’Din can offer little refusal. The only balm is that their deaths offer him the most culpable target to finally vent his fury upon, and with their public execution, the matter is officially settled.

By the time she returns to Daran, Uthvir has finished their investigation.

“I followed up on all of the failed and withdrawn petitions for parenthood in the region, within the relevant time frame,” they inform her, ensconced at their desk. “The easiest and most obvious place to look, after that, was death records, to see if there was a connection. Seven petitioners who reported miscarriages or retractions have died or gone missing in the region, and while I have no concrete confirmation, based on what Elalas was able to gather of the backgrounds and connections of the the individuals involved, it seems likely that all of them were planning to take the river out.”

‘Taking the river out’ is a common turn of phrase, these days, for elves who flee the territory. Mana’Din lets out a breath.

On the one hand, it saves her the job of having to manufacture reasons to award the children back to their parents. On the other hand, three orphans - even with good prospects - is not the best of news.

“I suppose we will have to place the children with new families, then,” she reasons.

Uthvir inclines their head.

“Even if any of the parents survived, it seems unlikely they would admit to their status. They are not going to expect anything but retribution, both for lying, and for letting their children be taken and harmed,” they reason. “And we have no more information to go off of. Shockingly, Elgar’nan’s peacekeepers did not turn up anything our own networks failed to.”

Mana’Din frowns.

“We did not catch this in time,” she says.

Uthvir wavers, uncertain. And she realizes that might sound accusatory, and backtracks.

“ _I_  did not,” she amends. “You have done an exemplary job, Uthvir. Do not mind my self-recrimination.”

“If you insist upon it,” they reply.

A moment passes, and Mana’Din lets out a breath.

“Where have the children been placed now?” she asks. In all the fuss, she has not had time to check on them herself. But she trusts her people to look after babies, by and large, and does not doubt that they will have been situated in some place soothing and safe.

“The youngest is with Sathlin and her wives, she is currently pregnant and all three of them are on leave, so it seemed a prudent choice. I imagine, given the state I last saw them in, that they will request to keep the little one. It would not be a traditional choice, given that they already have one on the way, but you are known for defying these sorts of conventions. I would leave it to your discretion. The five-year-old is with Insight and her husband, she was on the mission with you, and developed an attachment. I suspect they will also request custody. Their son is grown, now, and is one of my apprentices; I would say they are accomplished parents.”

“And no favouritism is involved?” Mana’Din asks.

“I never claimed that,” Uthvir allows.

“What about the oldest?” she wonders, remembering the girl and her baby goat.

Uthvir hesitates, just a little. They clear their throat.

“Thenvunin and I have been minding her ourselves,” they say. “She suffered the brunt of the trauma. I believe she was there for the longest. Her treatment was… it felt wise to make certain that she was with caretakers who understand such things. And we had space for the goat.”

Mana’Din blinks.

“Ah,” she says.

Uthvir examines their nails.

“Thenvunin has gotten very attached,” they assert.

“ _Just_  Thenvunin?” she wonders, almost amused. Except that it is difficult to find much of anything amusing, in this situation.

Uthvir glances at her, and then finally relents.

“We would both like to keep her,” they admit. “I assure you, I looked for her parents. The younger two cannot write yet, but Eda has been able to expand upon some of the situation. Mostly just to confirm what we had already surmised.”

“Her name is Eda?” Mana’Din asks.

Uthvir nods.

“It may be short for something longer,” they allow. “Her writing hand was injured, and is still healing. We try not to make her elaborate unless it is necessary. She is shy of spirits, as well, so there has been little headway in that department. But she seemed quite clear on the fact that her parents were gone for good.”

After a moment, Mana’Din lets out a breath.

“Well, all potential parents seem exceptionally qualified,” she decides. “I will speak with the others, to confirm their wishes, but unless they defy your expectations, I suspect the children will all be staying where they are. So I suppose I may as well congratulate you and Thenvunin on your new daughter.”

Uthvir inclines their head. They do not smile, but they cannot disguise their relief.

“We will do our utmost to look after her,” they promise.

“Then I doubt there is anywhere safer in all of Elvhenan for her,” Mana’Din decides. “Which is good, because we will need to start making up the difference, here.” Another incident like this would be unacceptable. She will not be getting much sleep in the next few months, she suspects; Dornin’s entire region needs an extensive and overdue amount of attention, and something will have to be done to prevent any more prospective parents from taking undue risks. Or, at the least, from committing to parenthood when they are still so uncertain of the validity of their lives in her territories. A tall order. She hopes Elalas has some ideas of what to do.

Uthvir inclines their head in acknowledgement.

“If that is all, for this evening,” they finally ask. “I believe I would like to reassure Thenvunin and Eda that neither of them need worry about further displacements. And inform Lavellan that she has gained a sister.”

“She will be pleased,” Mana’Din thinks.

Uthvir’s expression softens, in that way it sometimes does when they recall her connection to their daughter.

“I think so, too,” they agree.

Hmm.

A little sibling.

Not something Mana’Din herself has ever had, nor would be likely to gain. She feels a brief pang of remorse at the thought.

Perhaps she will stop by and visit, though. Just to make certain things are going smoothly.

With a nod of agreement, she lets Uthvir go, then, and head out into the hall. Familial matters aside, there is, as ever, work to be done. Messes to clean up, and wounds to mend, and a disaster to try and repair.


	13. Chapter 13

Andruil’s niece is a formidable combatant.

Dirthamen himself is one, though he lacks his daughter’s physicality. Still, it seems to be a trait that runs in the family. Andruil had  _paid attention_  when they were fighting Falon’Din, and not so much to her bloated, power-mad brother. Falon’Din was many things, but ‘surprising’ never made the list. Not since Andruil was ninenteen and figured out why her mother would leave her alone with Dirthamen, but not him.

Mana’Din, though, Mana’Din doesn’t need to drink the life of her followers to hit like a truck. Some part of Andruil thinks that fighting her niece one-on-one, with no safeguards or rituals or enhancements, would be a thrilling experience. She is not  _entirely_  certain she would win.

But, the cost of indulging is currently too high, she thinks. And besides. Family is family.

Her niece’s followers, however, are not strong.

For one thing, a large percentage of them were  _enslaved._  The irrefutable losers of their conflict, who did not manage to even free themselves from the camps, who failed to get so far as those Nameless who still linger on distant isles. Falon’Din ate most of his talented followers, and Andruil knows that none of them have sent anyone of real worth to serve Mana’Din. The most prominent follower she herself spared was Faunalyn, a hunter of sufficient skill, but no exceptional talent or prowess. And by all reports the woman has achieved a laudable rank, so the competition cannot be too fierce.

It makes sense, then, that Mana’Din refrains from participating in most of Andruil’s tournaments. A shameful turn out would not reflect well upon the empire, and there has always been the excuse that her territories are still recovering.

But, time has passed. Recent centuries have seen more and more interest in having a full turn-out for her games, a full display of the might of the empire. Many still question whether or not Mana’Din’s forces are strong enough to even hold her territories. The talk of Nameless spies infiltrating her lands persists, and the notion that the region might fall to a sudden surge of forces daring enough to venture in through Ghilan’nain’s lands has been difficult to shake. Andruil does not appreciate the supposition that her wife cannot handle border defenses, or that she would not mitigate such things even in that event.

A show of force is the logical solution. But if Mana’Din cannot muster enough champions, a competition would only prove the weakness that people fear.

Mythal sips her tea contemplatively. The scent wafting through Andruil’s chambers, as the hearth crackles beside them. Her mother has come to call, and Mythal rarely indulges in visits without cause of some kind. Her fingers tap against the side of her mug.

“Still,” she muses, following in with the conversation that has inspired such thoughts. “If Mana’Din cannot muster champions skilled enough to make even a middling showing, that is a matter that must be addressed. She cannot train every subject in her lands herself, and she has turned down both my offer and Elgar’nan’s of letting a peacekeeper contingent take over the training of her military forces.”

“Of course she has,” Andruil replies. “She loathes your methods.”

“Passivity does not build empires,” Mythal says.

“Let me guess. The two of you had one of your little heart-to-hearts, and Mana’Din was unreceptive to your philosophizing?” Andruil supposes. “She is not like you, Mother. She is not like Sylaise. She is not even like Dirthamen. She is a wild and willful creature. I would never let your peacekeepers come into  _my_  territory to defang my hunters. Do you remember when I was younger, and you told me such standards would never build combatants sufficient to Elvhenan’s armies? And yet, here we are.”

“You think she is like you,” Mythal supposes.

Andruil shrugs.

“No. But she is more like me than you,” she reasons. “The empire is your dream. Father’s dream. Sylaise and her pathetic husband’s dream. It was Falon’Din’s dream, even. But the rest of us are here because of our own dreams. I have no idea what Mana’Din’s is. Possibly something pithy and sweet, like the happiness of all people.” Andruil lets out a sigh. What a waste of time. But then, less of a waste of time than half of June’s projects or Dirthamen’s standing around.

“The prosperity of the people is the goal of the empire,” Mythal says.

Andruil rolls her eyes.

“Naturally,” she drawls. “So. You are here because you wish me to entice Mana’Din to enter my games, to see how skilled her combatants and defenders have become,” she surmises, cutting to the chase.

“We need to reassure the people. Or see the extent of the peril we still face,” her mother agrees. “Mana’Din is still reluctant to participate. It has been enough time, however. You must press upon the traditions of this establishment. It will be a hundred years since your last grand games, soon enough, and it has been too long since all of us competed.”

“Tradition is Sylaise’s concern,” Andruil points out.

“Yes, my dear, but Sylaise does not hold dominion over this event. And there has been talk that you have gone too soft on your niece, permitting her to abstain from matters which we would be inescapable to others. You have never let June bow out of these displays,” Mythal reasons. The underlying notes of the conversation twisting, and Andruil can see the implications there.  _Do this, or I will call you weak._

A softly aggravated huff escapes her.

“Fine. I will press the matter,” she agrees. “And what will you do if Mana’Din’s representatives all come in dead last and drag the entire affair down? I do not throw these tournaments to watch ineptitude in action.”

“If that should happen, then  _I_  will press certain matters with Mana’Din,” her mother assures her.

Well.

Too bad for her niece, she supposes.

~

The games are held in Arlathan. An affair fit to match any of Sylaise’s ridiculous parties, and with more spectacle, blood, and sport than any, by far. They are, in Andruil’s opinion, the highest event to ever take place within the city. The central square of the upper district is reshaped for the arena. The lower classes scurry to put things in order, displaced from some of their housing as the streets are rearranged, and they are shunted further out of sight. Andruil’s people see to it that the arena is sufficiently prepared, and her procession makes its way through the streets with grandeur and great intimidation, her hunters dressed in their fullest regalia, her own presence changing the colours of the upper streets to a deep and swirling scarlet. Banquet halls are prepared. Ceremonies are gotten underway.

Andruil presides, and for this event, she is the most powerful and prominent figure in all of Arlathan.

Celebratory hunts are held outside of the city, and in her hunting grounds. Her kin congregates, and offers her tributes. Elgar’nan gifts her a Spirit of Courage, which is shattered for the opening ceremonies. Its bright screams ringing out in a beautiful display of fireworks, its remnants singing the skin beneath her nails. Mythal gifts her weapons, and Ghilan’nain offers her fine pelts. And so it goes on. Mana’Din presents her with a set of feral dragon claws.

Andruil smiles at her over the box.

“Are your people ready?” she asks.

“My people are ready for anything, Aunt,” Mana’Din replies. “I only hope they remember to temper themselves, in light of the friendliness of these games. They are not accustomed to fights where no one’s life is in peril.”

Andruil chuckles.

“Boldly said,” she commends.

But large talk is the shape of this event. Mana’Din’s contingent are all well-equipped, in a style more befitting hunters than Sylaise’s neatly ordered rows of matching combatants. Or even Mythal or Elgar’nan’s, for that matter. They do not look out of place standing alongside Ghilan’nain’s champions. Andruil wonders which among them are the competitors, and which the attendants. It can be difficult to tell. Mana’Din does not segment her people as neatly as the rest of them do – probably, Andruil supposes, because she needs so many more of them to perform more than one task.

A lack of specialists will not avail her here.

Some of them quail under her stare. A big blond cannot meet it, and she catches a gratifying whiff of fear, before the remaining matters of the ceremony capture her attention.

She does not even notice the little red one until events are well under way.

Some of the matches she barely pays attention to. As much as these events suit her, they are still riddled with the same qualities, in many ways. The early bouts are filled with mediocrity, as the less talented are weeded out. She sits in her viewing box, and Mana’Din chats with her father, and Elgar’nan loudly boasts that his Victory will surely win the day. And she leans towards her wife, and admires the pretty beads in her hair, and the shimmering horns atop her head. Whispers promises for later into her ear, before they begin to converse more openly. Talking about the season, about Ghilan’nain’s creations, and other such trifles.

“Tarensa concedes,” the spirits of the arena inform Mythal. “The match is Uthvir’s.”

Andruil pauses.

Tarensa. That is one of her mother’s attendants, and a very good fighter. And Uthvir is not a name she knows. She turns down towards the arena, and spies the figure in question. A spear in their hand, gleaming red armour on their figure. Their face marked with Mana’Din’s vallaslin. A beautiful arrangement of features, in fact. Sharp and wild, as they bow to the viewing box.

“Yours?” Andruil asks Mana’Din.

Her niece nods, but offers little else. No bragging, nor illumination of the champion’s role. Mythal does not seem perturbed at the loss, but of course, that does not mean she is not put out. Andruil makes a point to keep an eye on this one.

Uthvir.

Interesting.

They make a good showing, in fact. Andruil lets her conversation with her wife taper off, as she watches more and more. Mana’Din’s quaint, sharp-edged little champion fights like a hunter. But Andruil certainly did not gift such a figure to her niece. And none of Falon’Din’s people ever knew how to fight as more than battering rams. Certainly not with that beautiful combination of pragmatism and viciousness.

Did Mana’Din train them herself?

“What are their duties in your lands?” Andruil wonders.

“Mostly, I have them training others in their skills,” Mana’Din explains. “That is the role of a great many of my more able subjects, at this point. To multiply the number of trained people at my disposal.”

She inclines her head. Reasonable. Train one, and let them train others, as you train the next. Or focus on matters elsewhere. Uthvir does not fight like Mana’Din, though their build and overall temperament seem to lend them to a different disposition, and that likely has its place. They participate in a group event with the big blond from before, and another tiny elf – this one bearing a striking resemblance to Mana’Din herself.

A new body double?

Perhaps her niece has not been as complacent as she thought.

It reminds Andruil of the time she had hunted down one of Sylaise’s spies. A body-double, too, who had attempted to mitigate her wrath by taking on her sister’s appearance. It had been quite cathartic to rip out her heart.

Still, most of her attention is reserved for the figure in red. Watching as they make their way through the rounds, establishing a place for Mana’Din’s people in the final leg of the tournament, before at last losing to Elgar’nan’s Victory. Seeming to over-estimate themselves, though Andruil does not believe it. No. This one is too shrewd, by nature. The mistake was intentional, deliberate – to place their lady’s people high enough to avoid condemnation, without the risk of winning. They have placed numerous injuries on Andruil’s own champions, though have managed to avoid damaging most others.

And when they lose, for a moment, they catch her eye. And there is something intriguing in those depths. A note of defiance that makes her want to reach in and quench it.

This elf. This champion.

She wants them.

But Mana’Din does not relinquish her people easily. And for good reason. Andruil contemplates the matter, as she stands to end the day’s ceremonies, and announce the first round’s winner.

There will be a way, she thinks.

She can be patient, in a hunt.

 

~

 

“You need to be  _careful,”_  Thenvunin says.

“I am always careful,” Uthvir reminds him. But they know what he means. They know his fear. They can feel it, well enough to know that he is not successfully disguising all of it from even casual observers. That Thenvunin is afraid of Andruil is to be expected. Uthvir had not wanted him to come. They had not wished him to witness the tournament, let alone participate. Mana’Din had asked neither of them to. But Uthvir is among her best, and a poor placing would only open the door to further interference from other evanuris. From the likes of those who would see all of them in cages again. And a victory would cause an upset, would make those same parties  _nervous,_  and nervous evanuris usually result in dead elves.

It takes skill, to throw a match like these ones.

And perhaps, to some degree, they are looking forward to the chance to enact certain revenges which they have thusfar been denied. But that only would not have compelled them. Mostly, they are doing this to repay another portion of their outstanding debt to Mana’Din. If they had known Thenvunin would also insist on participating, then, they would have reconsidered. Or at least, arranged things so as to prohibit that.

Lavellan is competing, too. But they are less concerned over that, surprisingly. Lavellan makes sense to the evanuris, she fits a pattern they recognize in matching so closely with her leader, and she is not afraid. She is  _angry._  Rage is a tool of battle more widely lauded than fear. An angry warrior will turn no one’s heads.

“I will not let her near you,” they promise Thenvunin. They  _can_  promise him that, now. At last. Words they should have been able to offer centuries ago. That burned inside of them, nauseating in their inability to be voiced.

They lean around his back. Interrupting their pre-match preparations. Their own gear is as battle-ready as ever; but Thenvunin came in regalia, as did most, and is going through the motions of preparing that belong to those who are not ever-vigilant. They are profoundly glad, in a way, that he can rest in that category again. He was not made to be like them, after all.

His hands come up, settling around their arms.

“Do not let her near  _you,”_  he says.  _I was never the one she was interested in,_  his fears whisper.  _Her eye was always on you. Not me. Not Lavellan. Do not let her see you again, do not let her see whatever compelled her before…_

Uthvir sighs, and presses a kiss to his ear.

“Beloved,” they say. “I am nothing to Andruil in this world. Most elves are dust motes to her.”

Fear is not reassured, however. The tremor of unease runs through them. They are trained like her hunters, after all. They have modelled themselves in a way meant to appeal, and they have not firmly escaped that, they know. Their claws, their teeth, the weapons they know, the manner they know – it is wrought in imitation of her, in many ways. They  _could_ draw her interest. Make her curious, at least.

But that is not what Thenvunin needs to hear.

His hands tighten on them, and he leans closer into their embrace.

“I can do this,” he insists. “I can make a good showing. You can withdraw. Mana’Din will let you, she will find an excuse…”

“The anomaly might prove more intriguing at this point than anything,” they say. “I am not an unknown, now, Thenvunin. I have a reputation. People are watching me, even beyond Andruil. But that is beside the point. Andruil’s interest in me was premised on… certain factors that are no longer in play.”

Thenvunin goes quiet. Still rigid, and tense, and Uthvir regrets again that he has come here. To dredge up old horrors, to deal with such fears and such eyes falling upon him again. Andruil’s champions are a veritable list of old wounds. People who had touched him. Harmed him.

And… them, too, in fact.

They lift a hand, carefully brushing the backs of their knuckles over his cheek. Mindful of the gauntlets they are wearing. They cannot ask him not to fear. They cannot beg him to let go of his emotions to defuse their worries. He will be fighting, today. Some of Andruil’s champions may face him, if they are not too injured or thoroughly out-matched to make the grade. People who harmed him before, might yet harm him again.

“They will not touch you again,” they promise, nevertheless.

“Uthvir-” Thenvunin begins, but then the signal for the first round of matches begins to tone. They press another kiss to him, and force themselves back.

“I have to go,” they say.

His grip is still firm around one of their wrists.

It takes a few seconds, for him to loosen it enough that they can gently pry it away. His expression is sunken, as they turn his hand, and kiss his pulse.

“My heart,” they promise, before they let him go.

His eyes follow them, his expression still stricken, as they make their way out into the arena floor.

 

~

 

Andruil does not, of course, go to her niece immediately after the conclusion of the tournaments, and ask for one of her most able champions. That would be a fool’s approach. High-placing followers are at their most valuable in the aftermath of the contests, and she would look like she was scrambling, attempting to gain control of the elf who bested so many of her own - Mana’Din would be in a position to perceive just how high her interest was, and demand any number of obscenely high prices.

No.

Andruil congratulates her niece on a good showing, and bestows the awards of triumph to Elgar’nan’s Victory. If one of her own could not win, then her father’s boorish peacekeeper is at least an acceptable loss. It reinforces the authority of the peacekeepers, which Sylaise will detest; and the authority of the peacekeepers is tied to the authority of the evanuris, to the empire, and in such dull and underwhelming categories is, at least, not poor strategy for her own long-term prospects.

She makes only mentions of Mana’Din’s various champions. It would be conspicuous to ignore one who placed well, but she does not allude to her particular interest, either. Let the matter settle, she thinks. June is displeased at his people’s showing, and is making noises about acquiring new warriors, and so Andruil  _helpfully_  offers to trade him some of her own much more highly trained people, in exchange for some costly favours. The debate reinforces her image, even though June refuses, in the end.

The tournament comes to its close. Celebrations die down. Andruil returns to her territory, and sets about gathering information on Mana’Din’s red-clad champion.

Most of her higher ranking people know immediately to whom she is referring.

“Uthvir,” they say. “Mana’Din’s spymaster.” The words are spoken with hints of trepidation. Accounts unfolding with some obvious holes in them, and as Andruil sifts through, she begins to realize that she has been paying too little mind to the matters at play among her own high-ranking hunters. Like following a bloodied trail, she sees the hints of wounds. Petitions withdrawn, trade agreements written up in her niece’s obvious favour, records that imply no small degree of blackmailing must be at play.

Spymaster, indeed. An elf who fights like a hunter, who seems to know more than enough  _about_  her hunters to make them nervous… though she supposes it is possible that the other leaders have been given similar treatment.

In a sense, it is highly disappointing. That kind of person must be invaluable to her niece, and these sorts of discoveries mean she will certainly have to be cleaning out her own house, now. 

But in another sense, it is the most her interest has been sparked since her ill-fated brother declared a civil war and upended one eighth of the empire. She will have to clean house, have to hunt down the weakest links in her own ranks, and find suitable replacements. And this figure, this Uthvir, grows more intriguing by the moment.

Were they in her camps, she wonders? Perhaps an overseer who managed to scrub her markings from their skin, to seek better fortunes in Mana’Din’s lands. That might explain some things. But it still seems unlikely. 

Her informants - the ones that seem the most reliable, under the circumstances - can only tell her that, so far as anyone knows, Uthvir was a native to Falon’Din’s territory. They occupied some remote village or other which managed to escape purging, vanishing into the wilds with their lover until Mana’Din dug them out and moved them into her palace, giving them leave to have a child. Apparently the daughter and lover were both among the champions; a neat little line-up of warriors, it seems.

The more she garners, the less likely she supposes that Mana’Din would be willing to part with them for any reasonable cost. She will have to go carefully, then; and in the meanwhile, she at least has the distraction, and the excuse, of cleaning out her own ranks. A decrease in the surplus populace, she thinks, will give any bargains she attempts to make considerably more traction. And a hunt through her hunters is, perhaps, overdue for engendering a little more respect.

She begins the purge with several of her more offensively corruptible merchants. It is a good place to start. Merchants are considered the most untouchable of castes apart from the upper ranks, and as her people become  _nervous,_  they betray more of themselves than they ordinarily would. She plans things out carefully. Offers several of her more esteemed traitors to her father, which earns her some more favour with him, and makes a few public executions at her Arlathan holdings. Which her mother gets to publicly disapprove of, in that quiet-yet-resigned-to-ugly-necessity way of hers. Her power stores increase enough to field a new project, and the executions free up a few loftier spirits to take on forms, and for her to reward some of her more trustworthy followers with children.

And she refrains from beginning her dealings with Mana’Din. Instead she goes to her sister, whose surplus of followers is well-documented, and barters and bargains until she wins one of Sylaise’s ‘trustworthy’ types, along with a spare jeweller to replace some of the artisans she culled for being spies. Alas, Sylaise still will not part with Melarue for anything less than Andruil’s Arlathan hunting grounds, and she refuses to relegate her city stays to the boredom of estate living. Not even Arlathan’s most talented pleasure worker could distract her thoroughly enough for  _that._

Her mother freely gifts her a Spirit of Pride, ostensibly in hopes of satisfying her apparent need for sacrifice with an offering of sufficient ‘fuel’. Her father offers her one of his peacekeepers, but she declines the spy. Neither Dirthamen nor June volunteer anything - not that she would expect them to - whilst Ghilan’nain promises her the pick of her followers. Andruil would not take from her wife’s limited stores, however.

She is planning to go to her niece, then.

She is not expecting Mana’Din to approach her first. But then, that is almost predictable in its unpredictability.

“You have killed a lot of people, these past few months,” Mana’Din notes. They meet in Andruil’s halls, in her Arlathan holdings. Amidst her trophies, as the nightlife sings out from the hunting grounds. 

“A regrettable loss,” she says. “But it turns out disloyalty was more prevalent in my ranks than I had assumed.”

Mana’Din tilts her head, in that manner inherited from her father. It makes them look like birds, both, like dull animals, but the gaze behind her mask is, of course, keener than that.

“And that is your only recourse to it?” she asks. “To kill them?”

Andruil raises an eyebrow.

“I would recommend it, my niece. If you were to take a firmer hand, perhaps your own people would not be so defiant and unruly. And you would have more cause to keep the peacekeepers from marching through your eluvians.”

Mana’Din shakes her head, and the air around her trembles with displeasure.

“You make yourself a monster,” she says, quietly. “Hunters are meant to provide. That is the purpose to their killing. But for you it is all thrill.”

Andruil is silent for a moment. Her niece is displeased, it seems. Soft heart thumping too loudly in her ears again.

“So now Death tells the Hunter where she may deliver it?” she wonders. “You are growing awfully presumptuous, for one whose followers cannot even learn the simplest obedience, or gratitude. I keep waiting for you to realize that they will never thank you for pulling them out of their cages. You are like a little child still, reaching out to pet beasts that will only sink their teeth into your palm.”

“Piss on gratitude, I have no interest in it,” Mana’Din says, blunt language startling a chuckle out of Andruil.

“I did not wish to be a leader, either, when I was younger,” Andruil confesses. “What sport is there in hunting caged beasts? But if I had defied, Mother would have just locked me away in my own personal, safe, cozy little cage. It is kill or be killed, and we provide for each other first. You and I. We are part of the family that stands above all the rest.”

“And that is why you want to kill us all so much,” Mana’Din concludes.

Now  _that…_  that is not an observation commonly made. Not even by her bold niece.

Andruil turns, and looks at her fully. At the hard eyes behind the mask, at the set stance, the tremors in her aura that defy the neutrality of the porcelain-white fixture on her face.

Did she realize this so fully? Does the knowledge pain her, Andruil wonders?

“If I could, I would kill you all. And then bring you all back, and start the game over again,” Andruil admits. She reaches out, and taps Mana’Din’s cheek. “But you know, Death has a certain permanency. Which is why you are in no danger from me, my little niece. We are family, and you are correct - hunters provide. Just as I provided you with followers, when your need was great.”

“And now you wish for me to return to the favour,” Mana’Din surmises.

“Just so,” Andruil confirms. “You knew I would ask?” 

“I assume it is why you are bringing it up,” her niece says, simply. 

She tenses somewhat, then. She has never traded away any of her toys before, after all. It is like when Sylaise used to keep those tiny creatures, Andruil thinks. The little fire sprites that Father made, that she befriended, until she was grown and they were large, and the monsters were used for their purpose - thrown into the fields of battle. How she had raged over that, over the mistake of becoming attached.

“Listen,” Andruil says. “Sooner or later, Mother will require you to offer one or more of your followers to the service of another one of us. She will do it because she doubts your loyalty to the empire, and with good reason - you hate it. If you beat her to this matter, you will outplay her. Give me someone noteworthy, someone invaluable to you. I swear I will treat them well, and in time, perhaps I may even return them to you. And they will doubtless have stories of how many benefits the empire can offer its loyal citizens - and how swiftly retribution can come for those who betray its generosity. Your people will see that they may not always be free to abide in such unruly fashion within your territory. It will calm things - it will prove a winning scenario.”

Mana’Din’s gaze turns towards the window.

“My people do not lack for knowledge of such things,” she says. “They are not  _unruly._  They are angry. The empire’s luxuries will not make them less angry, and its threats certainly will not, either.”

Andruil shrugs.

“As you like,” she permits. “I always thought father was the one who cultivated rage.”

“It is a different anger,” Mana’Din replies, simply. “I cannot give you any of them. I have to protect them, and you abuse your people. You employ violence against them. You kill them. You sexually assault them, and torture them.”

The matter-of-fact list of accusations gives her pause, again. She is not the most demure of persons, by any means, but she had not thought her bedroom habits to be common knowledge among her family.

“Who told you that?” she asks.

“You have told me in a thousand ways, over more than a thousand years,” Mana’Din declares. “Do you know, I thought about killing you, after we killed Falon’Din? I thought about killing all of you. But I suppose I became too much like you, in the end. Family. I could not do it.”

Silence, again. This evening is full of surprises, it seems. And her niece has taken after her more than she thought. Andruil remembers the same adrenaline-soaked moments. The same thoughts, that exhausted as they were, it would be the best opportunity she would ever get to cut down her only rivals and equals in the world. To claim absolute dominion.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” she says.

“You know better,” Mana’Din tells her. “You know there is something to be ashamed of, in what you do. Otherwise you would not keep any of it a secret.”

Andruil frowns.

“Discretion is for other people’s comfort. Not my shame,” she counters.

“We all justify it differently,” Mana’Din says. “Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan think that other people are less ‘real’. My father loses track of the effects of his actions, and inactions. Sylaise and June purposefully ignore their consciences. And Mythal aims towards a goal so lofty that she deems the ends worth the means. But you tell yourself that it is fair to commit atrocities because you  _can._  That might makes right. Just like Falon’Din. It is not a secret, this philosophy. And the more of it you have shown, the more uneasy your own position rests in the hierarchy of things. The conflicts in my territory have distracted form it. But you and I both know that your reputation has been sinking, and I do not think you know how to repair it. A mass culling has left you in Falon’Din’s old post - your followers are more pitied than mine. Arlathan’s streets fill with whispers of your callousness, your cruelty. Your sadism. It is becoming an open secret, Aunt Andruil, and there is no more fear of Falon’Din to hold over everyone’s heads, or to console your followers who begin to worry that they are serving the most unkind of leaders. Or did you think it was a coincidence, that so many have become ‘disloyal’?”

This is not at all how Andruil envisioned this conversation going. The air is lashing, and her niece is jabbing at openings that she should not even know about. Perhaps she has committed her mother’s most frequent crime, and forgotten that those who are younger do find their feet, even in unexpected places.

“I have no qualms with being the most feared among us,” Andruil assures her.

“Most twisted?” Mana’Din wonders. “Most heinous? Most cruel? I am going to be blunt, Aunt Andruil. Your reputation is at stake. You are not actually in a position to ask for favours from me. But I will do you one, just the same. The Pride spirit that Grandmother gave you. You will offer to me, as a show of humility - you will say that you have weeded out the more vicious influences among your followers, to turn over a new leaf. And you will focus on repopulating through the means already available to you. Children. The newly-embodied. Restrain your darker impulses, and let a new generation create a better image of you. Or I will spill every ugly secret you never wanted to know about what you do to your followers through every street and alley of every city in Elvhenan.”

Andruil stares, a cold fury rising up in her breast, and the  _audacity_  of Mana’Din is nearly as great an affront as her implications. Until she leans forward, and whispers something in her ear.

Something which makes the floor drop out beneath her.

“Shall I tell them how Aunt Ghilan’nain makes love to you?” she asks.

Andruil’s mind cycles, swiftly. She could kill her niece - reach over and rip out her throat. Mana’Din is wearing armour about it, however, and one hand is placed on the hilt of her blade, and Andruil has not prepared for a fight with another of her skill. But in all likelihood, her niece prepared before coming here. And her father would never forgive her for such a thing, which would be troublesome. People might not believe any of her assertions. But they would create  _rumours,_  and rumours but thoughts in people’s minds. Make them more inclined to notice certain things. Things that they might otherwise consider entirely preposterous. They might look for clues, and…

And the clues do exist. However well she covers her tracks.

She could drown the empire in blood, but not without going to war. And, however much she would prefer otherwise, her mother would likely stop her. Possibly even kill her, come to it, or worse still, resign her to a fate like Falon’Din’s.

Her niece waits.

Her niece  _knows._

 _“…_ The Pride spirit?” she asks, at length. Teeth gritted, rage cold as her terror.

On some level, it is at least interesting to feel  _something_  so keenly.

Mana’Din inclines her head. 

“A trifle,” she says. “Breaking it would make you seem cruel again. Gifting it will be more effective. And you will engender much more gratitude and regard for granting your followers more children. Focus on the lower ranks; perhaps even let some of Ghilan’nain’s people swear their offspring to you, it will foster further ties and make you seem even more benevolent.”

Andruil will not, she thinks, be getting Uthvir. It seems she will be lucky to part with her reputation.

Or the ability to continue meeting her niece’s gaze.

“…Take it with you when you leave,” she instructs.

Mana’Din inclines her head.

Her boots tap across the floor, as she makes her way towards the exit. And then pauses.

“For what it is worth, I personally find the torture is much more abhorrent,” she offers, and if there had been a single note of pity or gentleness to her tone, Andruil thinks she would have attacked her. Better judgement or no. But instead her niece sounds frank; truthful. Shame is cold, too, but it does quiet just a little.

Perhaps, Andruil thinks, she has been mistaken all along.

Perhaps Mana’Din is not  _anything_  she understands.

 

~

 

What is Mana’Din  _doing?_

That is a question which Ghilan’nain has been asking herself for centuries.

Everyone has a goal. A dream. A vision. Her beloved wife wishes to live, exalted, in the thrill of her own worth. To drag a moment’s worth of exhilaration through millennia of grandeur. Mythal wishes to reshape the world into a map which Ghilan’nain has only glimpsed in bits and pieces. Elgar’nan wishes fealty and obedience, to be the voice which carries across one coast to another. The unquestioned authority. 

June wishes to be special, and Sylaise wishes to exceed her mother. Goals, all. Ghilan’nain has her own, of course, the unending path of construction. The pursuit of perfection. Her chase, as Andruil calls it. But she has never quite been able to discern what Dirthamen is after, and his daughter’s goals have also proven elusive.

For a time she considered the hypothesis that neither of them had any. That they were aimless creatures - Dirthamen driven only by a sense of obligation, prevailed upon him by his mother, and Mana’Din wrapped up in her wanderings and ruminations. But things do not persist without goals, Ghilan’nain has found. They drift and lose themselves in dreams. It is why she often worries for her wife. Andruil’s goal is, in some ways, utterly unattainable - which would be find, if only Andruil was unaware of that. But she is not, and the reality that sinks through her, at times, threatens to sweep her away.

So when her wife comes to her in distress, anger and fear and  _how could she find out such a thing?!_ , Ghilan’nain considers it, again. 

What is Mana’Din doing?

“Calm down,” she instructs, after Andruil has destroyed her latest project. She decides she will not be annoyed about that. The creation would not have survived much longer anyway, and she had gleaned most of what she needed from her examinations of it anyway. Purple blood pools in rivulets through the grates on the flooring, as she divests herself of some of her outer work clothes, and takes her wife’s arm.

“It is easy for you to call for calm. Your reputation will not be…” Andruil begins, and then swallows back her words. Ghilan’nain curls their fingers together.

“I value you and yours as well,” she patiently reminds her. “But your father’s fury has rarely availed him in strategy, and it does not suit you, either. So. Calm yourself, and we will go to my chambers, and start from the beginning.”

She gives her wife a moment to draw in a deep breath.

And then she resumes walking, the two of them side-by-side as they make their way down the corridors. Ghilan’nain calls for her attendants only to ensure that they will have privacy. Andruil, it seems, has left her own at the gates outside, and has brought only a small contingent. She bids one of her more decorous assistants go and fetch them, and make certain they are fed and watered and offered a less conspicuous degree of hospitality.

When they are alone in her chambers, Ghilan’nain secures the door, and lets her wife examine every bare inch of the room. Lets her banish the pets lingering there, shutting them into the gardens and closing off the doors, sealing the blinds. She retrieves several satchels of tea from her stores, and warms it, letting the aromatics spread throughout the room before Andruil at last settles onto one of her fainting couches.

Ghilan’nain presses a mug into her hands, and brushes the dark strands of hair back from her face.

“The beginning,” she says, again.

Andruil ponders this for a moment.

“Mana’Din’s champion. The one in the red armour? Uthvir?” she says. Which is not where Ghilan’nain thought the conversation would begin. But, surprisingly, it does not take her too long to recall the individual in question. Their niece’s spymaster. The one with the interesting form, and minor alterations. Signs of costly workmanship in the pigments of their skin, dulled hair fibers, but the corruption likely did not come from breeding. Possibly one or two of the crafters who built their form had been less experienced than the rest; or they modified such things themselves, despoiling a high-quality form with poor taste.

“I know the one,” she confirms.

“They managed to acquire blackmail material on no small number of my followers,” Andruil asserts.

Ghilan’nain raises an eyebrow.

“That is why you have been so bloodthirsty of late?” she surmises. “Was it all part of some grand conspiracy?”

“I do not actually know,” her wife admits, lip curling in dissatisfaction. “But I doubt it. Their claws could be in your own people. My interest was in acquiring them for myself, but then Mana’Din dropped by for a visit.”

“And she… told you her little spy discovered something very personal?” Ghilan’nain supposes, brushing her cheek again. Andruil’s expression wavers, a moment, before she leans into her palm.

“I thought I would be able to persuade her to part with her spymaster,” she says. “Instead, she threatened to expose me, claimed the Spirit of Pride which mother gave me, and reprimanded my  _indecencies.”_

Hmm.

Ghilan’nain had not thought her niece inclined to such judgements. But perhaps she meant only to drive the point home.

Or perhaps Andruil is misreading the situation. Ghilan’nain manages to coax her into recounting the incident in as much detail as possible, before long. Getting her to drink her tea as it cools, and plying her with soothing motions until her wife is at last somewhat relaxed, and lying against the cushions. Her countenance still rippling with her unease over the situation.

“Why would she want the Pride spirit?” Ghilan’nain wonders, at length.

“Ostensibly, to  _improve_  my image,” Andruil replies. “I suppose it was a test, however. To see what the information would be worth to me, and if her threat held weight.”

“Which you confirmed for her.”

Andruil scowls.

“I was panicking,” she admits. “How did this even get out? You said you-”

“Did she have proof?” Ghilan’nain asks, breaking that line of thought before it can turn into a sharp-tongued tirade. 

Her wife swallows, and then curses.

“ _No,”_  she admits.

“So what you are telling me is that Mana’Din suggested the truth, and you not only confirmed it, but confirmed its hold over you as well,” Ghilan’nain concludes. Not the finest political manoeuvring she has ever seen from her wife, but, then, Andruil has grown accustomed to countering the specific style of manipulation cultivated by her kin. It has been a long time since there was a new player on this board; and perhaps both of them had made complacent presumptions about Mana’Din’s shrewdness. Presuming that all her knowledge would come in that encyclopaedic manner favoured by her father’s archives.

Andruil stares up at the ceiling. Eyes sharp and cold and  _furious._

“I need to kill something,” she decides.

“Do you?” Ghilan’nain asks, reaching for her shoulder. She toys with the clasps at the top of her dress, and Andruil glances sidelong at her. The air around her curling, leaning in towards the touch. It is a simple enough question. Ghilan’nain lets her wife struggle with it for a moment, before she stands up and decides some pacing is in order instead.

At least the rhythm of her footsteps provides a consistent tempo for Ghilan’nain to gather her own thoughts by.

Mana’Din’s territory is rife with unrest. Yet it seems Mana’Din has built up a healthy network of spies, and gathered enough trustworthy elves to maintain such a thing. A reputation for incompetence would be a useful shroud, she supposes. It is one which Ghilan’nain herself sometimes uses, relying on her image as someone wholly concerned with her pet projects to keep others from considering her a threat. Not that it is an inaccurate perception; but that only makes it more effective, in many ways. 

“Andruil,” she asks, finally. “What do you think Mana’Din wants?”

“I would have guessed freedom, before,” Andruil says.

“If she wanted freedom, she could have easily had it,” Ghilan’nain muses. Mana’Din could have declined to take on Falon’Din’s role, could have easily enlisted the help of any number of evanuris to make it impossible for her to take on the role, to ensure that his assets were instead divided between the remainder of them. Just as Ghilan’nain could have remained by her wife’s side, without territory or responsibilities beyond that. Andruil could have certainly furnished a great many of her ambitions.

But not all of them. And certainly not those she deemed too  _dangerous_  for her, things she might prohibit for any number of reasons. 

After all, there was only so much freedom a follower of…

…Oh.

Ghilan’nain considers, and considers again, until Andruil gives up her pacing and slumps against her knees. She threads a comforting hand through her tresses, gently drawing her nails across her beloved’s scalp.

It almost makes her want to laugh. Mythal must not have realized. None of them did. 

When Mana’Din wants  _is_  freedom.

Far and beyond what even Andruil or herself would accept as it, though. Beyond what they empire could permit. It is almost fitting for death, which lets loose the inherent energies of form and material, unbinding them from what they are. Unmaking what is made. Ending what has endured.

“Do you think your mother would be interested in learning that our niece is planning to dismantle her empire?” Ghilan’nain wonders.

Andruil stills. And then tilts her head back, and looks up at her. Eyes narrowing, as she catches up with her train of thought. It does not take much prompting. Andruil is very clever, though she is often too prone to jumping to conclusions, or cleaving to false suppositions.

“Mother would take that with a grain of salt. She does not trust your assessments, and Mana’Din is still the youngest of us. Sylaise rode that favour for twice as long as she has so far,” her wife determines. “And if Mana’Din hears of us claiming such things…”

“Then she may decide indiscretion is in order,” Ghilan’nain concludes, nodding her head as she considers the variables. “Oh well. It is something to hold over her in turn, at least. And perhaps her own tactics might be used against her. If you speak to her again, suggest that a reputation for treason is far more damning than any bedroom activities.”

Andruil goes quiet, and Ghilan’nain supposes she is considering that a reputation for weakness is worse still. 

“And that is it?” her wife finally asks. “It seems too tenuous. To play games with such things.”

“It has been too long since any real risk came into our lives,” she points out. “Not since Falon’Din, and even then, we greatly outnumbered him. He never truly could have won. Mana’Din might prove much more dangerous. Are you afraid of the challenge, my heart?”

“Never,” Andruil says, of course.

“Then, try not to lose your head,” Ghilan’nain suggests. “I will help you, after all.”

She moves her hand down to the back of her wife’s neck, and offers a reassuring squeeze.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (My apologies if some of this gets disjointed, a lot of this story was written over years and jumps around - I'm pretty much posting it here in full and that includes some bits that drop off oddly or haven't yet seen follow-through)

Thenvunin is trying very hard not to panic.

It is difficult.

In his mind’s eye he keeps seeing Andruil. Keeps hearing her voice, whispering in his ear. He has not heard it for years, now, but it is back again. The memories of pain and helplessness, and all those words of hers that would slither down his spine. Threats and promises and deep-cutting observations, that twisted open old wounds, speak up again, and remind him of the heavy thud of closing doors. Of hands that would pull his daughter away. Andruil’s own touch settling at the back of Uthvir’s neck, as they sat next to her at the high table. Her eyes glinting in the firelight.

Those same eyes, following Uthvir after the tournament.

Thenvunin watching, as  _she_  watched.

He is so afraid of her. Of what she might do, of what it might cost. Of Mana’Din looking at him with sorrowful eyes.  _It’s for the greater good. Those villages are not set to prosper under my daughter’s domain. If you go to her, and serve her well, and raise your daughter to serve her in kind, then perhaps there will come a day when I can return you to my own service. I have always been fond of you…_

He remembers. Going so quickly, he did not even have time to say goodbye to his mother. Only to leave her a letter, explaining the situation. Andruil had not been keen on indulging him with the luxury of visitors – and by the time they made their first trip to Arlathan, he had not felt fit to be seen. To face the people who knew him before. To see any of them, who might look at him and  _know._  Not that he had ever had many friends.

There had been a few invitations, though. From his mother, and her associates and friends, asking him to come and tell them all about his daughter. All about what a shift it must be, to go to a more  _rugged_  line of service.

 _Ragged,_  he had thought. It was ragged, not rugged. Rugged implied wilderness and weather, exposure to the elements, too much sun and rain and open air. But he had felt like the opposite. Like he was being slowly buried alive, in dark walls and thick, smothering furs, and choking hearths that could not warm his bones, no matter how long he sat by them.  _My daughter is still too small for me to be away from her side,_  he had said. He said it to everyone, for everything. She was a baby, and she needed him.

She is grown, now. Grown and strong, but she takes one look at him, and still fits herself into his arms as neatly as ever.

“I will kill Andruil myself,” she tells him.

“You will do no such thing!” he snaps, clutching her close. No. “You will not go near her, I could not bear the thought. If there is one person in this family she will never draw an ounce of blood from, it is you. It  _must_  be you.”

Lavellan sighs.

“Promise me,” he insists.

“I cannot promise you that,” she tells him. “…But I promise I will not rush into it. If it comes to it, though, I will kill her. I will absolutely do it.”

She should not have to. Grown or not she is still his daughter, still thousands of years younger than him, and always will be. He has fought in wars, has held his blade against perilous foes and through campaigns against elves of considerable might. He knows Andruil is not infallible, that she can be killed. That for all her dark, slinking words, and her strength, and even the dragon form she can take, all that would really be needed would be a  _chance._

If it comes, he thinks,  _he_  will be the one to seize it. He will protect Uthvir from her.

But even as he thinks it, some part of him quails. Shrinks. His grip trembles, and in his mind’s eye all he can see, over and over, is the attempt failing. The blade being knocked from his hand. Magic dispelled. Andruil’s amused disdain reigning supreme, as she flays him apart, as she takes Uthvir and the heavy doors to her chambers close with a resounding  _bang._

“It will be alright, Papa,” Lavellan tells him. “We were all helpless back then. But we are not helpless now.”

Thenvunin presses a kiss to her forehead, and goes a bit to pieces again, at that. Because it is true, but also because he knows that so much of their lives still depends on the whims of an evanuris. Mana’Din is not Andruil, but there is a part of him that is afraid she could be Mythal. She is another version of his daughter, but she is not his daughter herself. And she must look at the larger picture, he knows. At the accounting of lives and the numerical balances of suffering.

That is what leaders  _do._

After a while, though, he catches his breath. Lets go of his poor child and actually has lunch with her, as they had intended to do. They still have not quite broached the subject of Lavellan being reassigned to the hidden estate, but he thinks Uthvir is waiting to time that appropriately. Lavellan has become preoccupied with the Spirit of Pride which Mana’Din retrieved from Andruil.

Thenvunin does not understand quite why she was so intent upon claiming it. Possibly it was some political statement that has gone over his head. But he knows what it is like, to go from the gentle and patient garden walls of Mythal’s territories, to brushing so close with one of Andruil’s sacrificial altars. And he thinks, perhaps, that it makes sense that his daughter should be so interested in the spirit. She has always been very concerned over  _him,_  after all.

He thinks he will ask Mana’Din if it would be safe for her to take the spirit along to the estate. It will be good for her to have company, and Pride seems more…  _temperate,_  the most upon its spectrum. A good influence.

He is considering that possibility by the time Lavellan returns to his duties, and he makes his own way back to Uthvir’s offices. To the desk that has been set up for him there, past the agents and apprentices who nod at him in acknowledgement. There seems to be a certain degree of curiosity over his increased involvement with Uthvir’s workday, but so far, no one has asked him directly about it. Thenvunin is glad. It is easier for him to see Uthvir, to have them close at hand, to have visible proof that Andruil has not sent some slinking hunter in through their ranks, has not somehow crept through the eluvians herself and stolen them away.

Nights are the worst. When he wakes up and they are not there, and they are, of course, always just up and doing something in another room, but he cannot help but think that he has lost them. Every time. For one moment there is always that terror – and they usually they come into the room, probably drawn in by his utter inability to hide his emotions when he is barely awake and flooded with them, and lingers until he falls back asleep.

When he gets into their office, and does not see them immediately, he is given to a similar moment of lurching fear. They are supposed to be in here. Where are they? He turns, and heads back into the hall, grabbing the nearest agent at hand. One of the ones who has taken perhaps a few too many aesthetic cues from Uthvir.

“Darathen,” he says. “Where is Uthvir?”

The man blinks, and then dips into a polite bow.

“They are at the southern training field,” he says. “Elanna was supervising cold climate drills, but the environmental spells were patchy. I believe they went to renew the sigils. They should not be gone long, but, it would be my honour to escort you to them, if that is your preference.”

Thenvunin tries to swallow back his unease, and nods in acceptance.

“Yes. Take me there,” he requests.

Darathen nods, and gestures towards the correct turn in the corridor. Thenvunin, like most of the regular military types in the city, tends to use the training barracks or the northern practice field, which is closer to their chambers and the main hub of the palace. The southern field is further off, down past the orchards and technically outside the city walls, and requires an agent present in order to access it. He has been there a few times, but the easiest way in is through a few twisting passageways that were originally dug as escape routes, back before the city was renovated from whatever atrocious state Falon’Din kept it in.

“You look very handsome today, if I might say so, sir,” Darathen tells him, as they make their way down the corridor.

He is very polite, as Thenvunin recalls.

“Thank you,” he manages, distractedly.

“Is that cloak new?” his escort wonders.

“No,” Thenvunin says, distractedly. “It is a little over ten years old, now.” Uthvir commissioned it for him, to go with a belt they had made themselves. He is not wearing the belt today – it is too dark to go with the rest of his outfit – but the light tone of the cloak contrasts nicely with several of his purple and red outfits. And it covers his back well, and reminds him of the days when his hair could be comfortably worn down to his knees.

In a good way, most of the time.

Darathen clears his throat.

“Ah. Well, you seem to have coordinated it most refreshingly, in that case,” he says. “Have you a need for a new cloak? Not that this one seems at all past using, it is, as I said, quite nice. I only ask because a friend of mine is one of the tailors down in Ulenmen. They just finished their apprenticeship last year, but I guarantee you, their workmanship is flawless. They have even gotten commissions from outside the territory, and they have perfected an infusing technique for threat that is almost like starlight. They call it waterlight, because it tends to gleam more like the reflection of stars on the surface of a lake…”

Thenvunin nods, absently. Ordinarily he would be pleased to discuss the prospects of an up-and-coming tailor, and their innovations, but he finds himself more in a hurry than anything. Lengthening his strides and only marginally paying attention, as Darathen waxes poetic about thread in a way that seems almost incongruous for someone who has styled themselves after Uthvir. But then, Thenvunin supposes, that is probably just his professional look.

As they finally make their way through to the stairwell that lets out into the training grounds, Darathen finally seems to taper off.

“I could… gift you one, if you are interested,” he says.

Thenvunin pauses, and takes a moment to try and figure out what he is offering. The air in the tower is positively  _frigid,_  why would the environmental charms stretch all the way out to  _here?_  Oh, probably so that no clever mischief-makers can sneak aside during training and warm themselves up, or some such. Did Uthvir dress warmly? They likely did not realize they would be coming out here. Thenvunin purses his lips, and then glances at Darathen’s expectant look.

“Ah… if you like?” he ventures.

The man beams.

“Yes! That would be – I would be most pleased to make the offer,” he says, happily. Thenvunin nods, and ventures a glance out towards the training field. No distinctive red armour in sight. He takes a moment to tentatively reach for that odd little tether that has buried itself deep inside his ribcage, though, and then with a nod to himself, follows it upwards. Up to a stairway leading to the outer wall, where the sigils for this tower are gleaming and refreshed. Anchored with blood magic, by the looks of it. He hopes they did not use too much – it is far too cold to be losing blood on top of things.

But then he sees them, standing at the railing. Looking out over the grounds, with the light just beginning to turn around them. Someone has gone and fetched them a warm drink, at least. Or a drink they have warmed themselves. Thenvunin lets out a relieved breath, and heads towards them. Oh, they look cold. He does not know how he can tell, he simply  _can._ They are in full armour, but it is not one of their finer sets, with enchantments to block out the weather.

With a frown, he slips off his own cloak, and presses it to their shoulders as he comes up behind them.

Uthvir turns towards him, not the least startled; but a little befuddled, according to the shape of their brows.

“Thenvunin?” they ask.

“You look cold,” he tells them. Taking the opening to press a kiss to their forehead, and feel their skin against his lips. Cooler than he would like. He should have brought a proper cloak, with a hood.

Uthvir chuckles.

“It is cold. That is how it goes,” they say. “I am not on the verge of hypothermia, beloved. And I am wearing more layers than you. You should keep your cloak.”

“It is my cloak. I will put it on you if I like,” Thenvunin insists, and when they show no sign of discomfort at having him at their back, he settles an arm around them, too. Pausing to look out over the apprentices who are attempting spellwork with numbed fingers, and trying to figure out how to traverse constructed snow drifts and ice flows. Not really a common hazard in Mana’Din’s territories – but plentiful enough in Ghilan’nain’s and Elgar’nan’s.

Uthvir passes their warm drink to him.

“Sip that,” they say. “It will help with the chill.”

He sniffs it, but does not get a whiff of alcohol. When he drinks it he tastes cinnamon and warmth, and recognizes one of the local teas. It does seem to help spread a little more heat through his bones.

“Do you need to stay here?” he asks them.

Uthvir wraps an arm around his waist.

“No,” they murmur. “I thought you would still be with Lavellan. I suppose I lost track of some time. Shall we go back?”

“Yes,” Thenvunin agrees. And yet, nevertheless, he finds himself lingering for a moment. Caught by the feeling of the cool air, and the open sky. The distant trees and orchards and farmland, and the city walls. The air smells crisp and pleasant, as a few spirits alight from the palace rooftops, and take off towards the clouds.

Sometimes, despite it all, he thinks, he  _does_  feel safe here.


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

Uthvir is annoyed.

It is past midnight, barely. They were finally about to go home for the evening. They have already missed dinner with their daughter, have barely even seen Lavellan all day. Thenvunin has a new tunic which makes his shoulders look eminently bite-able, and all Uthvir really wants to do is go home, check on their daughter, check on Thenvunin, and actually sleep away the last few hours before dawn.

The idiot twenty-five-year old who set off the security wards in Mana’Din’s private bathing chamber is proving an impediment to that goal.

Because they have no idea how he  _got that far._

 _“Explain,”_  they drawl, tapping a finger against the surface of the table in front of them.

Idiot Child gulps, and shifts in his seat.

“Leadership should be… freedom… I mean. Down, down with the empire?” he mumbles, staring at their hand.

Uthvir tsk’s.

“Not your political motivations. Explain how you got into the bathroom,” they clarify, letting just a bit more menace come into their countenance. It might backfire it renders him too unsettled to speak, or has him bursting into tears like the last one, but after a few moments he just starts fidgeting.

“I was, I just, the palace wards run on lunaric structures, and my mother uses the same sorts of ward work when she does… is she going to get in trouble? Because she had no idea I was going to do this, none of my parents did, I just… I thought if I could time it right I could slip in if I dropped through the upper windows and rappelled down and the first time I tried it I bounced off and burned myself but then I gave it another try and it worked and I got in, but honestly I would have gone back out except then I was stuck and I was not actually planning to assassinate Mana’Din, I swear, I did… I did not even bring a weapon, except my little knife, and I forgot to sharpen it today.”

Uthvir nods. They had examined the toothpick, after taking him into custody. Not that short blades could not still do a lot of damage, but the ‘knife’ really was more the sort of things someone might use to clean the undersides of their nails, rather than attempt a legitimate assassination.

“That is lucky for you,” they say. “Because  _I_  caught you, and I am not quite so patient with fools as Mana’Din.”

Idiot Child ducks his head.

“Can I go home, then?” he asks.

“No,” Uthvir says. “Much as I would also like to go home, now you have to come with me and show me exactly how you breached the wards, and then tell me everything you know about lunaric warding structures.” Of all the inconveniences, they are starting to suspect that Idiot Child might also be somewhat brilliant.

He swallows, loudly. Scratchily.

Uthvir sighs.

“But we can feed and water you first,” they allow. “What is your name?”

“…Darathen,” he offers.

Of course. Only in Mana’Din’s territories would a child named after the city try to ‘assassinate’ it’s leader just to see if he could.

 

~

 

Darathen thinks that, under different circumstances, he might like Arlathan.

It is a beautiful place, and it is possible to get nearly anything under the sun there. So long as one has the means, anyway. There are spectacles the likes of which would never be seen in Mana’Din’s cities, and he cannot deny a certain fascination with the sheer  _grandiosity_  of the place. Even with all its dangers and all its darkness, it is, in its way, inspiring.

But it is not home. Home is Daran, the city which Darathen was named for. And there is always a feeling, when he returns to it, like taking off his gear at the end of the day. Quiet and easy, comfortable. Arlathan is too loud, to over-the-top, too dangerous and unpredictable for him to ever sleep easily there. Even Mana’Din’s estate, just outside the city, always had that  _edge_  to it. It reminds him of his first scouting mission, when Uthvir had taken him out into the remote wilds of the territory, and he had lain awake in his tent and listened to the sounds of creatures moving through the underbrush beyond it.

Arlathan is like the wilderness, even as it is a city. There is always something moving, and always a degree of uncertainty on what is lurking around corners, and just beyond sight. Things are not always what they seem to be.

Rarely has Darathen seen a more perfect example of Arlathan’s appeal and oddities, than in the high-ranking servant of Mythal he glimpses.

The man looks like Thenerassan, and yet not. There is a distinct crispness, a brittle edge to the air around him that is common enough among Arlathan elves, but very unlike the kind of bursts and depths which Darathen associates with Thenerassan himself. Still, it takes him aback for a moment. The stranger is equally tall and firm in build, with fair hair, but long and cascading. He is dressed in a cerulean and blush gown, with golden leaves in his hair, and matching decorations twining down from his thighs, transforming into elegant open-toed boots.

Darathen stares at him, caught by the image for long enough that it becomes noticeable. The stranger glances towards him, and then stiffens a bit. Lifting up the edges of his collar.

“What are you gawking at?” he asks. Darathen’s cheeks pink, and he ducks into an apologetic bow.

“Forgive me. I was merely transfixed by your beauty, stranger,” he asserts.

The man sniffs, and gives him a once-over in return.

“It is inappropriate to stare,” he asserts.

“Forgive me,” Darathen asks, again. This earns him an imperious look, as the man tilts his chin up, and and rather briskly turns on his heel and carries on his way. Disappearing amidst the throngs of other lovely-and-strange city elves.  _Imperial_ elves, the clan-kind in Daran would call them, with badly disguised dislike.

 _At least they’re pretty,_  he thinks to himself.

 

~

 

Daran is the city where Inava is born.

Its streets are where she spent her childhood, running around and getting into mischief with the other children of the city, climbing vine-strewn walls and dashing down busy streets, often pursued by her babae, who must have pulled her out of the palace fountain a hundred times. The grand discoveries of her early years were made in Daran, scrambling into the branches of trees, and prodding at wisps and spirits. Swimming in the springs and catching beetles with spells.

But she has been all over most of Mana’Din’s territory, in the hundred years since she reached her majority. Babae is a courier, and Inava has spent many years as his apprentice, learning the roads and the crossroads, the merchant paths and the borders, the landscape of the territories which she was born to. Lands, Babae tells her when she is still just starting out, that used to be traversed by great roaming clans of elves. Who made camps, and had no cities, and followed in the wake of dragon Keepers. Protectors.

“Like Mana’Din?” she wonders.

“No,” Babae says. He is a man that day, short and stocky, with scars showing through his shorn hair. The big burn mark that covers the left side of his face is livid in the midday sun, and when he woke up in the morning he could not stand to be touched – not by Inava, not by her Nanae, and certainly not by anyone else. Mana’Din’s markings stand out on his face, by contrast. The pale lines are smooth over every blemish and mark of his skin.

He frowns. His lips tighten, and his deep black eyes – dark as Inava’s own – trail across her forehead. Their markings are the same shade, though Babae is much paler than she is, so they do not show up so much.

“Mana’Din is no Keeper,” he says, just as she is beginning to wonder if he will speak again today. Sometimes he does not, her babae. Sometimes he loses his voice, and cannot talk. Cannot look anyone in the eye. Can only move, and, when he does not want to be touched, it can make Inava feel like he is behind a thick wall that she cannot get around. Sometimes it makes her sad. But it has always been like that, and most of the time, she does not fear that he will fail to come back of his own accord. He is still her babae, after all.

“Keepers do not own their people. They are family to them. Mana’Din’s only family are monsters, who make mockery of that image. They have stolen it away to benefit themselves, and they would have you believe that they are better than the Keepers of old. But they are wrong.”

Inava swallows.

“Is Mana’Din a monster, too?” she wonders. A family of monsters, pretending to be Keepers. She thinks it fits with some of the things that Nanae and Babae say, and other people as well. And Mana’Din is very strange, too. She wears her mask, and she is always coming and going, surrounded by other elves. Does she wear the mask because she has no face? Is she… even an elf, in truth?

Are any of her kin?

Babae does not answer her right away. Not for long enough that she thinks he has finished with talking, and she will have to write down her question and ask him it again tomorrow if she wants to get an answer. But then he lets out a long breath.

“No,” he says. “I do not think so.”

Oh.

Inava considers this.

Mana’Din is not a Keeper, and Mana’Din is not a monster, even though she comes from a family of monsters.

“What is she, then?” she asks.

But  _that_  is when her babae loses his voice in earnest, and can only shrug. He settles his hand on her shoulder, and Inava lets the matter go, and instead walks with him. Picking up stray pebbles that look like they might interest some of the bauble-makers in the city, and listening for the sounds of the river. The road runes glow, marking out the safe path. Beyond it, she knows there are wild things. Dangerous things, too, and sometimes they stray close to enough for Inava to glimpse them. Small, scurrying creatures, and bigger animals. When the daylight begins to fade, she can see the outlines of great beasts, if she is lucky. Moving through the shadows between trees.

Nanae worries about them, a great deal, when they are about their duties. But Nanae also says that if anyone must choose between dangerous beasts and dangerous elves, it is far better to take their chances with the beasts. And when they come back to the city, there are always warm greetings. Eager ears, ready to hear of what Inava has seen, and familiar walls, ready to close in safety and shut out adventure, until the next time they set out again. Sometimes her nanae bids her stay in the city, when Babae goes with large parties and does not need her help so much. When she does they show her how to tend the orchards, and the plants that grow in the gardens. The flowering fruit bushes and trees, and the vines that help keep the magical currents running right.

When Nanae was young, their own parents could make whole aravels out of such vines, they tell her. They could fly for months without needing a single spell, better than any other clan’s aravels could manage. Nanae’s clan lived in sprawling jungles. They flew their aravels into horrible storm winds after their Keeper died, trying to escape the monsters chasing them. But they did not make it, because the monsters were faster, in the end.

They tell Inava, often, that they wished they had learned how to make aravels like their clan’s. Such things could fly across the sea, they say. Could drift among the clouds and hide up high from all the troubles of the world. Their voice always sounds so sad, but Inava cannot fix it. This is something that lives in the heart of Daran’s older generations, she knows. The pain and sadness that beats like old drums, over wounds that have festered for far longer than she has been alive.

“At least you learned how to cultivate the vines,” she says. “Maybe someone else will figure it out?”

Nanae smiles, and lets it go.

“Maybe,” they agree.

When she is three hundred, though, and she has been to the villages and outlying cities, to the ports and towns and settlements, and even the Unmarked Village, where Babae delivers books filled with updates on the territory, to elves who have no brands on their brows, that is when Uthvir comes to Daran.

Uthvir, and Thenerassan, and their tiny daughter. Inava hears the rumours about them before she ever meets them. That Mana’Din has brought them from somewhere, has appointed them roles within the palace. That both grown elves show ‘signs of wear’, which she knows means the trauma, the pain, of having gone through something terrible. When she finally does see them, she spends most of her time sneaking peaks at their baby.

Babies are  _cute,_  after all.

She does not meet Uthvir properly until she learns that they offer lessons in hunting and trapping. This is something which Inava has long been interested in; she sees so many creatures when she and Babae run their routes, and while she has never particularly wanted to  _kill_  any of them, she thinks it might be nice to be able to bring home more things to trade than just pebbles and mushrooms and flowers. With pelts and bones and meat, she could get better salves for Babae’s burns – ones that stink less, perhaps – and some nice bulbs or seeds for Nanae, and books for herself. Maybe map books. She likes those, likes to trace the borders and lines, and wonder how different the territories and cities beyond her homeland are.

But first, she must get those lessons.

She thinks of what she could offer for them, and not much comes to mind. But the rumours have it that Uthvir and their spouse have lived far away from things for a very long time, so perhaps they might like messages delivered somewhere? She could take something along the next time she and her father embark, could make it a priority just below the Official Missives. She approaches Uthvir with her offer.

“I have a better idea,” they say. “I will come along on one of your excursions. If you and your parent are willing to tell me what you know of the roads and region, then I will show you how to lay out traps, safely, and how to make some simple snares yourself.”

Inava agrees, but then she has to tell Babae, and he is not quite so happy with the arrangement.

“Uthvir is an elf of the empire,” he grumbles.

“How can you tell?” Inava wonders. “You have not even met them.”

Babae does not answer her. But he also does not protest the decision; and when Uthvir comes and joins them the next week, he is a big, silent musk ox, carrying most of their missives in a satchel on his back, always walking close beside her. She tells Uthvir that he probably will not speak, so it is better to ask her questions. They do not seem to mind.

The traps they show her only work for catching little things. They must be set beyond the safe runes of the road, and Babae huffs whenever she crosses them. But Uthvir always crosses them, too, and tells her how to spot signs of danger. Tracks from predators, and from the type of prey liable to fall into her traps. They tell her about more complex sorts of traps, as well, and in turn she answers all the questions she can about the roads and the shortcuts she and Babae know. They set out snares as they head towards one of the drop points for the couriers to Arlathan, past the last eluvian before the terrain extends beyond the safe networks. And then they check them on the way back. Only two have yielded prizes; a pair of fat weasels of differing subtypes. Uthvir shows her how to cleanly snap their necks, and skin them.

When they get home again, Babae turns back into an elf.

“You may continue to ask that one for tutelage,” he says, although he does not elaborate on his change in tune.

Inava knows better than to risk her luck, though.

She trades her weasel pelts for a new warming stone for his muscles, in the end. Sometimes changing shapes makes his scars ache. And she makes more traps, and whenever Uthvir is offering lessons, she digs up something to pay them with. It is a good deal. The tutelage always pays for itself, in the end, as she gets better at making traps, and discovers more humane sorts, and eventually takes up a bow and learns how to use a spear, and even how to fish when her and Babae’s travels take them close enough to lakes or streams.

A few times, Uthvir comes along on their routes. And then eventually, they do begin to ask her to deliver messages. But always to strange places. In locked boxes next to odd rock formations, or in the hollows of warped trees, or even, once, behind a waterfall at one of the river roads. She does not tell Babae about these messages, because Uthvir tells her that it is best if she tell  _no one,_  and the secret feels important. It feels like the undercurrents of Daran. Like the words unsaid in the stories her parents tell her. Like the weight of the word  _leader,_ and the way Mana’Din’s eyes sometimes look, in the hollows of her mask.

Like the shrines she finds, in stray corners beyond the warded roads.

Inava does not know what the full picture is. But she knows it is part of the reason why she is so sure that the lands beyond her home must be very different places.

Very  _dangerous_  places, perhaps.

When she is one-hundred and fifty, Babae begins to sleep more. He takes on the shape of a great bear, often, and settles himself beneath the round windows of the main room. Where the orchard scents tend to sweep in, in the morning, and the sun warms the stones of the floor. Sometimes neither Nanae nor Inava can get him up in any kind of timely fashion, though when he wakes, he is still her babae. Just… tired, more. Quiet, more.

Inava starts doing more of the shorter routes alone. She knows them well enough. Sometimes one of the other couriers will go with her, or some spirits will. There is a Spirit of Guidance which has often followed her and Babae, and though she had thought it had moved on, it comes back again every now and then. Keeps her company, and recounts some of the stories she has heard before. Guidance is bright, though it is a young spirit, and it is naturally gifted at finding safe places.

And then Babae stops coming for some of the longer trips, too. Uthvir bids Inava take their daughter along for a few of those. Lavellan is steady – somewhat quiet, but good at hunting, and handy with a blade. She does not seem like someone who was only a baby a few decades ago, but then, that is how growing up works, Inava supposes.

For her own part, her apprenticeship seems to be done. She goes home one evening and overhears her parents talking. Quiet voices.

“It is not that I want to go,” Babae says.

“My heart,” Nanae replies. “You have  _always_  wanted to go. I know why you did not. But I am safer than I have been in thousands of years, and you have given me our daughter. Neither of us want you to go. But you do not have to stay, either.”

Inava freezes.

What do they mean? ‘Go’? Where would Babae go, that they have not gone before?

“It gets harder and harder to pull myself up,” Babae says. “Do you think any of them still made it? Sleeping, in the deep dreams?”

“I hope so,” Nanae tells him. “I always hope so.”

Babae sighs, and Inava feels a deep and awful dread, that has been growing in her ever since he began his long rests. It turns sharp and hard against her heart. She does not like the sounds of this, she thinks. If Babae is having troubles waking, then they should… find things. Spirits that can help. Healers. Medicines, or stimulants. She can trade for things. Drinks that help banish the fog of sleep, wards that keep corrupted spirits from making waking difficult, and other such aids.

When her parents reappear, though, her Nanae is so happy to see her home, and Babae is smiles so brightly, that she cannot quite bring herself to mention what she overheard.

Maybe if she does not think about that conversation, it will just… fade away. Along with its implications.

She trades for spicy teas and incense that is supposed to stimulate the mind. Babae comes with her for her next job, walking beside her as an elf again. He talks, makes jokes, even. Slings his arm over her shoulder, and sings some old songs.

The melancholy, the over-sleeping, has perhaps come to an end, she thinks.

A few months later, though, her parents sit her down. And they speak to her of uthenera. Of long sleeps that old elves often take, when the waking world has wearied them, and the spirit in them calls back to the Dreaming. To the deep places, where those who have also slipped into sleep are waiting. Inava finds herself caught in the grips of dread again, and she thinks of when she was small. Of that invisible barrier her babae would drift behind, and how sure she always was that he would come back.

And now he means not to.

 _“Why?”_  she demands. “What is so wonderful in the Dreaming, that you cannot find it here?”

Babae shakes his head.

“Inava,” he says. “This is not my world. It never has been. These are the lands my clan once travelled, but Daran is not my home. The roads we walk are not the roads we flew. Worlds, life, the land, the people… it has all changed. But I have not. I have lived for a very long time, my daughter. You are not the first child I have raised. Your brother, your sister, my parents, friends and kin. Clan. Whatever is left of them, I can only find in two places. One is in you. And the other is in my dreams.”

 _And I am not enough,_  Inava thinks. She looks at her babae’s face, and for the first time in her life, feels truly inadequate. She cannot measure up to the memories he has. She cannot match that image of a glorious past, even though she cannot see it, either. What her parents describe. It is a dream to her.

It is a dream to everyone, it seems. And some people would prefer sleep.

“Do not,” Inava asks. “ _Please,_  Babae!”

His expression wavers. Falls. She drops into his arms, and he holds her back. Soothing her like she is a child again. Her strong, scarred, quiet Babae.

The conversation ends, fraught with tears. Babae tells her he will not do it too soon, at least. His eyes full of sorrow, his voice heavy with fatigue, but they can find a way to bring vibrancy back to the world for him. There  _must_  be a way. Nanae takes her aside, takes her out to the streets. Twines their arms together, and has her walk with them past the glowing nightlights of the city. Night always smells different in Daran. There are nightblooming flowers by the city gates, and when they open, their scent drifts across the main roadways and into the market.

“Sooner or later, my child, everyone either dies or dreams,” Nanae tells her. “It is better to have the latter option. When I was a hundred years younger than you, warriors of She Who Calls Herself Mythal came and offered me a choice. I could either take their brand and join their cause, or I could be imprisoned. Our Keeper, they told us, was poisoned, and would have to be slain before he could kill us all.  I spat at them, and they locked me in a dark and cramped box. There was no light. Barely enough air. I could hardly dream in that space. I had no idea how much time passed, or what was happening to my family. When they pulled my back out again I was filthy and hysterical.”

Inava swallows.

Her nanae pats her wrist, and lets out a long breath.

“They offered me the same choice. I could not answer, I was too busy screaming and calling for my clan and Keeper. So they locked me away again, and I thought I would die. But it was only for a few moments. Just a few, and then another, different warrior of She Who Calls Herself Mythal came. He chastised the one who locked me away, called him too harsh. Took me to get cleaned up, and to have food, and water. I thought he was the kindest man in all the world, and then he began to  _explain._  The vision of his great leader. How much remorse she had for such measures. How sorry he was, for our Keeper, and who was truly to blame for all our suffering. And I knew what he was doing. That he was manipulating me. But even so, I almost fell for it. I almost…”

Nanae trails off, and swallows.

“In the end, I refused several times, and so I went to the camps. And I will not tell you what happened there. But it was bad. There were many of us, all from different clans. They would split us up, you see, so that we would not be able to trust one another as easily. So that we would lose spirit. They would tell us that other members of our clans had joined their cause.  _Your mother fights for us now,_  they would say. I caught that lie, too, because I did not have a mother, and never had. Some of them were better at their task than others. When they locked me up again it was with a big elf I did not know. A stranger.”

“That was your babae, of course,” Nanae continues. “He slept a lot back then, too. I was always afraid when he woke up, because I thought he might hurt me. But the first thing he ever did was hide me. When one of the overseers came by, one of the… the least pleasant. He plucked me up and tucked me behind him on the cot, so that it looked like there was only one of us in the room. The overseer was not doing an official check, he was looking for amusement. Whenever they came by, your babae would hide me. For years and years, we barely spoke. We worked until we were exhausted. We slept when we could. We cleaned each other’s wounds and then one night, your babae just began to talk. Telling an old story his clan used to tell. And… so we began doing that, too. It kept me sane.”

Nanae sighs, and Inava tries to imagine it. Spending so much time like that. Surviving with it all. Knowing that the people responsible were out there, living freely.

_Monsters._

“All that time we had spent, had suffered, for saying ‘no’,” Nanae carries on, drawing her further down the road. Past the scent of nightblooming flowers, to the smoke of cooling cook fires. “And then Mana’Din made her offer. I did not even think twice. I said  _yes._  I could not go back to that, to… I spent years and years just  _wishing_  I had said yes, to prevent even a little of that suffering. Wishing I could go back and change my answer, that I could just be  _out_  of that place, and when I got that chance, I wept. Your Babae… he did not want to say yes. He wanted things to just be over. But, I asked him not to leave me. So he stayed. I asked him to give this life a chance. So he did. And neither of us regret that, now. You are more than I ever dreamed, and Mana’Din has proven to be more sincere than those guards who first asked for my loyalty,” her nanae tells her, squeezing her hand. Inava’s throat grows thick, and she has to struggle to keep her emotions from clouding around them. Mixed though they are. Her nanae’s affection is heady, and drops over her like a warm blanket.

“Just because the world has changed, that does not mean Babae should not have a place in it,” she insists.

“You are right,” Nanae tells her. “But you are also overlooking the most important part. Your babae does not  _want_  a place in this world. He wants  _you_  to have a place, he wants  _me_  to have a place. But he had his place, and he cannot – he never could – bring himself to find a new one. I was selfish, when I asked him for you. I knew he would go soon, and, I… I love him. I did not want him to. But it is inevitable, and I cannot cage him. Not after everything. It would be the worst kind of betrayal. I know you are not ready to let him go,” they say, as Inava’s dread returns. As it bleeds out of her, and they pause in their steps to wrap her in a physical hug.

“I know,” they say, again. “But even in dreams he will love you, and he will still be there.”

Inava closes her eyes as they cloud with tears.

It is not fair.

She truly  _is not_  ready to let him go.

And after that night, it is a long while before they talk about it again. More than a year. Babae sleeps, though. Deep and long. And he stops going on trips with her altogether, and she knows. She tries not to think about it. But she cannot escape the truth, either. The Dreaming is deep and it calls to him, and he is peaceful in his sleep. She spends many evenings sitting beside him, just listening to the deep rumble of his breaths. Until at last a spot is prepared for him. In the protected grove within the city, where other elves sleep. Where Mana’Din has promised that their rest will not be defiled.

The house is not the same, without her babae. The spot by the window is empty, and Nanae struggles more. They both do, in their own ways. Mana’Din builds a new garden on the roof of her palace, and offers Nanae a job there, and it is… hard to go, but easier, too. Moving into the palace housing, in rooms that do not offer so much empty space, or so many reminders.

Babae is still out there, she tells herself. Just sleeping.

She visits him, sometimes. Going to the grove, and settling down among the trees. Nanae tells her that when the Keepers were still around, they could talk to the sleepers.  They would give messages to the members of their clans. Always somewhat vague, because it was hard to gather full impressions and carry them back to the Waking world. But enough to help, to tell the sleepers of important things, to keep their waking-world loved ones connected to them.

Inava sits in the grove, and thinks about her babae, and she knows she is not a Keeper but she hopes it still works, in some way.

She does her duties, walking the roads, delivering missives and messages as per usual. Some of the elves she knows in the outlying settlements ask about her babae, and so it falls upon her to tell them. The older ones just nod, but the younger ones, those closer to her own age, always seem to have questions. Sometimes more than she wants to answer. And it is hard, doing her job, in a way that it was not before. She still likes a lot of it, likes to get up and go and see things, to be out on the roads, but… they are the same roads. And she is alone, now, more often than not. Most couriers tend to be, they travel light and fast and interfering with them is a serious offense, and the few times she has run into actual trouble – both times with elves she did not recognize on roads she was known to take – she manages to just plain out-pace them, turning into a merlin and shooting into the trees, the world going fast and narrow as her gaze zeroes in on the best routes through the foliage.

She can do her duties.

She  _likes_  her duties.

When she finds out that Uthvir is looking for more apprentices for scouting work, though , she goes to their offices. Ready with her list of skills, her scraped together reasons for an interest in changing her line of duties – a plentitude of couriers are currently in operation, and she has admiration for the sort of work they do, and a desire to see more of the territory beyond the roads she has already learned. Uthvir is not difficult to convince, however. They settle behind their desk, comparing what seems to be a report or missive to a large map of the eastern riverways, and barely glance at the application she puts in front of them.

“Accepted,” the say. “Report to the barracks by the south gate at dawn, Elanna will be supervising your training and assessing your compatibility for a full apprenticeship.”

Inava blinks.

“Just like that?” she cannot help but ask.

Uthvir nods.

“I  _have_  taught you before,” they say. “If you are not cut out for the work, Elanna will be equipped to tell. You might not be, I suppose, so I would save the celebratory drinks until after your first day, at least. But that is not an actual restriction, just a piece of advice.”

Inava blinks again, but that… does seem reasonable, she supposes. She has not even told her nanae, yet. And when she does, they are less than thrilled. Scouting is more dangerous work, in many ways. The remote regions of the territory hold unknown dangers, and there are fewer guards and less infrastructure than the main roadways and rivers. Less help, less familiarity. Scouts are a military branch, too, and nanae does not trust them. The armies of the empire.

But she thinks of messages delivered in secret. Of Mana’Din, who is not a monster. And Uthvir, who has taught her things, and always seems to know more about the world than they say. It is not Elvhenan she wishes to serve. It is not  _that_  world that she wishes to see more of.

It is this one. Her home, that she is loyal to. That lets her babae sleep in gardens, and hides shrines in secret groves, and shuts its doors when the peacekeepers come to walk the city streets. All of them, working, weaving a pattern that she wants to know the truth of.

Babae wanted her to find her place. And this is it, she thinks.

 

~

 

Elalas hears the rumour for the first time from some of Uthvir’s people.

It is an odd line of speculation for the agents, who are usually encouraged towards a certain degree of pragmatism, and not rumour-mongering. She pays further attention to it, of course, because if that could prove to be a liability. And it may be information that some of her contacts on the other side of the fence would be interested in having. Not necessarily because it holds any water, but they like knowing what the military types and related branches are speculating on.

“ _I_  heard,” Lasmami says. “That the reason why Mana’Din wears her mask is because she is so beautiful. It is very dangerous to be beautiful outside of the territories, you know. I went to Arlathan. I will not tell you the kinds of things they do to elves they find appealing there.”

“That is ridiculous,” one of the other young ones, whose name eludes Elalas, replies. “The only elves the imperial-types  _favour_  are the pretty ones.”

“You do not know. You have not been to Arlathan. I can believe it. If you ever go, Hedasel, you should wear a mask, too,” Lasmami insists.

It is, indeed, another one of those random hearsay types. And Lasmami is one of the younger agents, and their companion seems to be equally inexperienced. Apprentices do have looser lips than most. 

Elalas has seen Mana’Din’s face. Has… interacted with it, to some degree. She shifts a little, thinking about it. It  _is_  exceptionally beautiful, although she had not thought it to quite match up with Elvhenan’s standards. Then again, trends tend to shift a good deal in a great hurry as they come out of Arlathan, at times. Perhaps at some point, Mana’Din  _was_  considered the height of appeal.

Elalas knows, indeed, what elves often do to those considered pretty.

But surely Mana’Din would be exempt from such treatment…?

It is because of her father. It is a thematic thing. Because people used to fear Falon’Din’s visage, and… Mana’Din did not want them to be afraid. Reminding herself of that is reassuring. But then it also reminds her of Mana’Din’s character, and the warm rush she feels has her shaking her head at herself. It is the middle of the day. There are duties to attend, matters to see to, rumours to listen in on and ramifications to consider, and…

She makes her way over to Mana’Din’s office.

Her lady is, of course, not inside.

Elalas eventually tracks her down to the indoor practice room, where she is going through the motions of a familiar fighting form. Muscles rippling, a light dusting of sweat on her arms and the bared skin of her legs.

Mask still in place.

She makes her way over to where Mana’Din is, and waits until the other woman stops. It does not take long for her to turn curiously towards her.

“Elalas? Has something happened?” she asks.

Elalas lets out a long sigh.

“No,” she says, moving forward. Reaching up, and carefully undoing the ties on Mana’Din’s mask. She pulls it away to reveal her face. Brow furrowed in concern, features as lovely as they ever are. For a moment she simply stands there, trailing her eyes across them. And then she reaches up, and brushes her cheek.

“What is it?” Mana’Din asks. Her own fingers twitching, as she keeps her hands politely at her sides.

“I just wanted to see your face,” Elalas admits.


	16. Chapter 16

Thenvunin holds Eda as she cries and cries, until finally the tears taper off, and she goes lax in his arms. Leaning against him as he rocks and soothes, until her breathes even out, and her eyelids droop shut. And the air around her calms into the distant tide of sleep, misery leeching away to a moment’s relief, just before it does.

Then he picks her up, carefully. Wincing a bit, because one of his legs has gone numb from the angle, as he tucks her back into her bed. She is not used to sleeping alone, he knows. With those  _people,_  there had been the smaller children, always. So he settles himself on the opposite side of her bed, brushing some of the hair away from her face, and leaning back. Just in case she wakes up again.

At least she did not sneak out into the garden to get the goat again, this time.

But at length his own tiredness reasserts itself. He spent last night awake, fretting over Lavellan and Uthvir having to be away, and Eda still having such trouble sleeping, and Mana’Din being off in Arlathan, and all the controversy and issues and matters with the peacekeepers coming in again. He would prefer it, vastly, if his family was all right where he could see them. Where he could assure himself that they were not being hurt. But having Eda close at hand helps him, too, it seems, as he eventually drifts off to the soft sounds of her breathing.

And then it seems that he blinks, and there is a baby goat on his chest.

Thenvunin stares.

The goat bleats, and starts eating his shift, before Eda reaches over and pulls it away. Offering it a bottle instead, as she sits cross-legged on the other side of the bed, and beams at him.

Somehow, with a smile like that, Thenvunin cannot bring himself to scold her for having the goat in her room again.

Maybe later. Some other time. When it is not making her quite so happy.

 

~

 

Thenvunin is beautiful. Gorgeous and resplendent, in a gown that leaves very little to the imagination, as Uthvir kisses him. 

They nibble at his lips in a way that makes him lean in closer; makes him part them and let out a pleased sigh, and trail his fingers up towards the point of one of their ears. His gaze is hooded, and affection and lust both permeate the air around them. The soft, evening light, and the shadows of distant trees, and…

…Where are they?

Uthvir stills, as they feel an odd tremor. They wait for Fear to chime in, and when the moment is might only by a muffled, distant sense of disorientation, the illusion fails. ‘Thenvunin’ gasps as their grip tightens on him. His outline wavers, and more of the pieces add up. Their Thenvunin is taller, and the emotions in the air are a reflection; their own lust, their own affection, shining back at them through a delicate act of subterfuge. They hiss, and their magic  _cracks._  Slicing through the layers of the Dream, reaching for Fear, who comes surging up the forefront. The illusion of Thenvunin struggles and breaks in turns, and they left holding a terrified spirit.

_Little spy._

They smell Andruil’s hand in this, they think. A honeyed trap, the first layer set down to get past their defenses, and then the next would be to probe into their thoughts, and uncover valuable information. Anger rises surprisingly high, as Fear radiates out from them, and demands in snapping tones and with their own sharp teeth just how this spirit has come by Thenvunin’s form.

_Where is he? Did you touch him?_

It takes them a perilously long time to recall that he is likely awake. Awake, and watching over them on that side of things, and finishing up a letter to Lavellan. He had coaxed them into bed. Soft touches and that same sheer outfit they had seen upon the illusion of him a moment ago; likely, then, the spirit simply pulled something that was already at the forefront of their thoughts. But still, Fear sinks claws into its twisting, battered form – already wounded, already torn up to some degree, and they see Andruil’s work  _again_ as it writhes and shudders and is terrified.

It does not even know who Thenvunin is, Fear finds. It knows only its instructions, its mission.  _Go find the red champion, in Mana’Din’s lands. Bring me their secrets, and I will release…_

…Oh.

There are tendrils of the spirit that reach past this illusion, and part of the Dreaming. Tiny tethers, spiralling off beyond Fear’s senses. A twin soul, then. Rare. This one seems to be a Spirit of Secrecy; its partner is likely in poor shape, given its own condition. Fear has devoured little spirits like this one in the past. But if Andruil has its other half, then she will know the moment that the spirit in their hands is broken. Likely, its counterpart will die, too.

Uthvir hesitates.

The spirit shudders, and sends ripples of its distress and remorse outwards. It is corrupting. Slowly, but surely; the trauma and the pain have left it addled and disoriented from its original purpose. Spirits of Secrecy tend to hide, as is their nature. They wonder if being a twin wrenched them from the depths of the Dreaming, if that was the vulnerability Andruil discovered, and exploited.

It is prepared to die, but it does not want to. Death will mean the end of them both.

They let out a breath, and then bind the Spirit of Secrecy in place.

Andruil wishes to hunt them?

Two can play at that game.

Uthvir begins to follow the traces of connection, between the spirit which crafted the illusion of their dream, and the one connected to it. That will likely be with Andruil, though if she is not dreaming herself, then there will be some degree of distance between them. It may well be a trap. The twin soul connection would be a useful means of exploitation, and a way to verify the success or failure of her plan – if the spirit with her dies, then her spy was caught. If it returns, then it has gotten something. But it could also be a lure, meant to draw Uthvir to her, or more likely, to some place where they might be more easily compromised.

They see the signs. Distorted places in the Dreaming, where the trees begin to grow thick, and the spirits more sparse. A cage of branches dangles from the edge of a sheer cliff, and there are pathways up towards it. To the glowing, battered little form within it. A taunt, almost. Some pathways are more obvious than others, but all of them, Uthvir knows, are a trap. All of them will lead them into mires of the Dreaming where stronger spirit shards have been used to craft illusions and binding spells, that will put them in some perilous situation or another.

They keep their distance. Pacing below, in the shadows, as Fear considers this matter with a surprising degree of calm. The panicked flight reflex that often takes to the forefront in the Dreaming is quieter than usual. Uthvir feels their own thoughts echoing in a strange calculation, as blue winds swirl through a landscape littered with drops of blood and spirit essence.

And then they pause. For a moment, they can almost see the lines of the trap, laid out like a web. Like the patterns of Fear’s old lairs, back before they ever met.

There is a whisper, in the back of their mind.

Familiar.

 _What_   _are you?_

Uthvir stills in realization.

Andruil has laid this trap  _with Fear._  With the Fear of  _this_  world, the spirit they never met; sympathy twisted and corrupted, and as the realization comes, the shadows around them drift and unfold, and something akin to their own nature stares back at them through the dark. A strange mirror, and yet not, because this Fear does not resemble them. It is eyeless, and sharp, made of bone and claw and dark, rustling sounds. But it  _is_  them, too. Fear alike to Fear. Uthvir is still as it reaches out, and taps the tips of its fingers to the sides of their face. Calling up something which resonates with each brush, until they reach out, in turn, and halt the gesture.

Fear – the one not within them – surges, and then, in a characteristic move, decides the situation is much too much.

It flees.

The trap fails without it. Uthvir’s heart hammers in their chest as the forest and the cliff all collapse. The woven cage falls, and they reach out without a thought; catching it, and the battered little spirit within. They watch the illusions come undone, strangle calm, still, as the web unravels itself. As the shadows recede, and Fear’s own voice in their mind seems… contemplative.

Uthvir waits, until they can detect the signs of Andruil herself seeping into the Dreaming. And then they withdraw. Moving at a surprisingly sedate pace, to retrace their steps, and cover their own trail. Several more curious spirits flit away, bright eyes wary, or else wide with interest. The Spirit of Secrecy is where they left it, pinned in place with a cage that seems less callous than the one its sibling is still trapped within.

Both spirits shudder, and shift, and try to reach for one another through the gapes in their cages.

After a moment, Uthvir silently unbinds them both.

The Spirit of Secrecy is pale purple, where it burns brightest. Its counterpart – Uthvir is not certain what it is – shines in reds and oranges, and once they are freed, the two rush towards one another. Trying to fit themselves back together, it seems, as their wounds gleam and the visible corruption in the fragmented parts of the beings begins to recede with surprising speed. The Dreaming reacts to the vibrancy of the reunion, and the spirits seize upon their environs. Uthvir raises an eyebrow as they watch the image of the dream solidify, once more, and the twin souls take on echoed images of themselves and Thenvunin. Caught in embrace, wounded but freed.

They wake with a feeling like their heart has lodged itself in the back of their throat.

The room is dark, and quiet. But there is a little light in it, they realize, as they carefully sit up. Thenvunin is sitting at their desk. He has pulled a robe on, and is carefully writing by lamplight; the room darkened for Uthvir’s comfort, it seems. His hair falls around his face, and the tip of his tongue is sticking out just a little, as he focuses on whatever it is he is doing.

They watch him, for a moment.

 _We are very different, now,_  Fear notes.

Uthvir stares at the tiny pink tip of Thenvunin’s tongue, and the ink stains on his fingertips, and the bite mark on his clavicle.

 _Yes,_  they agree. Both of them, at once.

Thenvunin looks up, and blinks.

“Oh!” he says. “I am sorry. Did I wake you?”

Uthvir stares at him a moment longer, before they let out a long, inexplicably relieved breath, and shake their head.

_Maybe there is room for more miracles, yet._

“No,” they say. “But come to bed?”

Thenvunin’s expression softens.

“Of course,” he agrees, and puts out the light.

 

~

 

Uthvir watches Thenvunin get ready for the day.

Out of the corner of their eye, on and off, as they pull on their own armour. Thenvunin sits at the side of the bed, and rubs lotion into his skin. He walks through his closet, softly murmuring to himself as he debates what to wear. He lays out a few options, tries on one tunic and then changes it out for another, dithers for a moment over a set of leggings before casting them aside, settling on a set of soft thigh-high leg braces and a skirt instead.

He brushes his hair, and seals a honey balm over his lips, and then goes to feed his birds.

Uthvir watches his legs, as he walks. Watches his hands, as they move over his body. Their blood is up today, it seems. They want to stop him. Want to catch his fingers, and press kisses to them. Want to push him down onto the bed, and bite his lips.

When he ventures back in from the gardens, Uthvir finishes slotting their newest knife into the hidden holder in the interior of their left leg brace, and then moves up behind him. Thenvunin glances back at them, from where he had been examining a container of dried fruit.

“Did you remember the…” he begins, and then trails off, as Uthvir grasps his hips and presses a kiss to the bared skin of one of his biceps.

“I want to fuck you,” they admit. With just a hint of a growl in their voice; a note of possessiveness slipping into their countenance, before it occurs to them that the abrupt declaration might alarm him. They pause, and wait to gauge his reaction. Thenvunin freezes for a moment. They can see his throat bob, as he swallows, but the air around him only spikes with mingled surprise and a distinct note of arousal.

Not fear, and no signs of unpleasant memories resurfacing.

Good.

They press another kiss to him, and grind their hips pointedly against his backside.

“You could not have realized this  _before_  I got dressed?” Thenvunin asks them, though the hitch in his breath does not really seem to be caused by annoyance.

Uthvir responds with a chuckle, as they trail their fingers towards the hem of his skirt. Pleasantly short, and breezy.

“You look very nice,” they inform him. “And I enjoy undressing you. It is like opening a gift, every time.”

Thenvunin’s throat bobs again, and he braces a hand against the wall beside him. They grind pointedly against him once more. He really does look very appealing today, and he smells nice, too, with some lingering notes of warmth and sleep, and his lotions and powders. They slip a hand up the bare skin of his thigh, radiating intent as they mentally calculate – they should have enough time for…

One of the wards pulses, briefly. An alert.

Someone is coming to their door.

One of their agents, it seems.

Uthvir lets out a frustrated breath, before they regroup.

“Later, I suppose,” they declare, and rather than sliding their hand into Thenvunin’s underthings, they pull back, and start straightening him out again. Not that they have had much of a chance to muss him up. He twists back around towards them, turning and resting a hand against their shoulder. His cheeks are flushed.

“Are you being a  _tease?”_  he demands.

Not intentionally, no. But Uthvir settles for winking at him, provoking a frustrated huff right before the door chime goes off.

“Really, Thenvunin,” they say. “Do try and control yourself, we have duties to attend.”

Thenvunin narrows his eyes at them.

“ _Menace_ ,” he accuses. “You did that on purpose, you –  _you!_ ”

Amusement does not really take much of the edge off of their current arousal, as they raise an eyebrow, and then nevertheless head towards the front door to their chambers. Business must be attended to, so they do shift gears, after a moment, and begin to consider what might have brought one of their people straight to their door at this hour.

They are not entirely surprised to find Darathen waiting for them on the other side.

“What is it?” they ask, brusquely. They do not welcome unannounced visitors with particularly open arms – their chambers are for resting, and safety – and they endeavour to make it clear that coming to them should be reserved for  _actual_  emergencies. A cool reception is important to maintaining that impression.

Darathen ducks into a polite bow.

“Spymaster,” he says, matching their all-business tones, and manner as well. “It is an agent. She was supposed to report in at a checkpoint in Arlathan at dawn this morning, but did not. Since she left from Daran, there is no reason to think she would be delayed by weather or terrain, and it has been several hours.”

Uthvir straightens, and mentally reviews their files. They think they know which agent in specific it is, though Darathen would, of course, be vague about it in an unsecured corridor. But if they are correct, she would be making a drop in the city. Some new schematics from one of the workshops were to be transferred to the holdings there, along with a few coded instructions for the two agents they currently have operating in the lower districts. Sensitive material, but not normally the sort to provoke interference, either. Though, given that the number of people who would have known about her errand is quite small, it could be an act of opportunism as well.

“I will handle it,” they decide. Given the climate, and the day’s schedule, they can and probably should spare the time to do it themselves. They feel a distinct note of dread at the prospect that Andruil might be successfully interfering with not only their contacts, but with their actual agents, now.

They turn back to where Thenvunin is watching their conversation with some obvious concern.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, coming closer.

“There may be an issue,” Uthvir tells him. “I am going to have to do some tracking through the crossroads. Feel free to make use of the office while I am gone, it could take more than a few hours, depending on what I find.”

“Perhaps I should go with you?” Thenvunin suggests.

They shake their head minutely, however. Thenvunin tends to think of their agents almost uniformly as ‘youths’, regardless of the actual ages involved. If one of them is dead, finding the body would distress him.

_It would distress us, too._

They ignore that part in favour of offering up a reassuring smile.

“Lavellan is supposed to send in a report today,” they say. “I would prefer it if you were here, just in case there is anything wrong on that end of things. It may be that someone is interfering with our messengers, too, or the couriers.”

Thenvunin frowns, but after a moment, he nods in agreement.

That has certainly put a damper on the mood, Uthvir thinks.

They take Darathen with them back to the offices first, however, to go and establish they have presumed correctly about which agent failed to report in, and to verify other pertinent details. The route she was meant to take is noted in one of their records as well, and they take that note, while also being sure to mentally catalogue just who would have had access to it. There is not much reason to suspect a leak  _yet,_  but if there is one, it is best to start narrowing the pool in a hurry.

They leave some of their senior agents in charge of the daily goings-on for the morning, then, and send Darathen ahead to Arlathan, to make sure that their wayward agent has not just become uncharacteristically diverted within the city. Every so often even Uthvir’s agents get a little lost when it comes to Arlathan, especially when they are used to Mana’Din’s territories and nothing but.

Then they set out for the crossroads, tracking their way across the intended route until they begin to find signs of her.

Their agents are good at covering their tracks, but after a few hours they manage to find a Spirit of Curiosity who is on personable terms with their people, and who directs them towards one of the branching pathways off of the main lines of the network.

The route leads away from the roads that connect to Arlathan’s eluvians, and loops back towards an unfinished network in Mana’Din’s own territory. Fortunately, the unfinished nature of the project means that there are not very many possible detours beyond it. Uthvir is barely half an hour down the branching roadway when they begin to see concerning signs. Damage to the roads, and evidence of tampering. Scorch marks and hastily employed cleaning and destruction spells. Someone was interfering with the network?

And of course, one of Uthvir’s people would not simply let that observation slide.

An hour into their trek, and find an unexpected turn off. The end of the path falls away into a blanket of fog, distorted and disorienting as well, but more importantly, the road stones used do not match the materials sanctioned in Mana’Din’s territory. They are not the rough-but-serviceable bridge rock, enchanted in the southern city workshops. The ones nearest to the most stable quarries. Those have specific patterns traced onto them, for when they are set out on the rooftops of the stone workers’ houses, to soak in the sunlight and charge their runs. It is what makes them stable enough to survive in the crossroads for more than a few decades.

Rather, the stones for this route look like the sort forged elsewhere in the empire, where shattered spirit essence renders them bright and shining. They have been painted to match the original path, but the paint does not disguise the change in texture, or the lack of symbols carved into place. Uthvir pulls out a knife and scrapes off the surface, and sure enough, the material beneath is smooth and gleaming, and more lightly coloured.

They will need to check the network maps to be completely certain, but it seems that someone has been trying to covertly build in a bypass. The road does not end in an eluvian, but if the original eluvian used has been removed in some hasty bid to cover tracks, then that would make sense. Uthvir’s agent saw the signs of construction, at an hour when there should not have been any, and investigated. Whoever she stumbled upon realized they had been caught, did the quickest job they could of withdrawing and destroying evidence of their activity, and…

Likely killed, or otherwise disposed of, one of Uthvir’s people. Given that she did not return to report her discovery.

Pathetic. As if this paltry cover up would be enough to save them, and as if Uthvir will do anything but seek retribution, now.

 _Especially_  now.

They turn and begin to make their way back, heading up the curving pathway. The road is below and to the side of most others, curving around the shadow of a small waypoint, that is decorated with some large but simple stones. They shield the view of the distant fog, and give the eye something to latch onto as a landmark; and also do a good job of hiding most of the unsanctioned road from clear view.

“Help!”

The voice comes through, tinny and distant, and Uthvir halts.

They glance around, but have to wait for the call to repeat before they can pinpoint its source. But there, over by the resting platform – or rather,  _beneath_  it – they can make out the outline of a figure, curled up around the edge of the rim.

Their missing agent.

Uthvir does a quick assessment, and then vaults off the road themselves. Using their magic to drift and remain aloft, although the strange currents of the crossroads make it more difficult to control than usual. That seems to be how their agent got stuck, as they veer towards her and realizing she is suffering from magical exhaustion. The air around her is tinged with relief and flaring with odd pulses, as she tries to grip the platform, to keep from falling off into the fog. A few wounds bleed sluggishly from the sides of her arms, and there are scorch marks on her armour.

“Inava,” Uthvir acknowledges her, as they scoop her up and pull her over the rocky landmark.

They themselves are almost out of wind as they carry her over. The crossroads sucking at the edges of their energy. Their temples throb, and Inava barely manages to offer them a relieved pat.

“Road,” she says. “Bastards.”

“So I gathered myself,” Uthvir offers.

Inava does not look well, but whether that is from the exhaustion or the blood loss, or both, or some further damage is not clear. Uthvir rallies themselves and carries her back up to the nearest eluvian, which lets out in one of Mana’Din’s villages. There is a healer, fortunately, who swiftly takes the agent under their care, and informs Uthvir that she will need to be put into induced slumber in order to repair the damage done from both the fight and the over-exposure to the crossroads. There are reasons why elves do not generally spend more than an hour or two at a time working in such places; especially not when magic must be used.

Uthvir takes a breather themselves, and makes polite conversation with the village’s brewer, who is apparently married to its healer and has a lot of opinions about the state of the territory that they have been wanting to forward to ‘someone up top’. It is an amusing enough conversation that they do not find it tiresome, at least, although the cut of her hair reminds them of Thenvunin. It is a similar colour to his as well, and something about the way she comports herself makes them think of when they first met him.

That feels like a lifetime ago. Seeing him in Andruil’s halls, with Mythal’s markings on his face, and a disdainful curl to his lip. Pulling up his collar when he noticed their stare, as if they had been ogling his neck.

They had not been. But they have certainly made a pastime out of ogling him since.

They send a messenger to Daran. Given the situation, they will need someone to come to the village to keep an eye on Inava, and make sure no one just  _happens_  along to impede her recovery. It still takes them a few hours more to get the finer details sorted out, obtaining a timeframe from the healer, and then making their way back to Daran themselves, where Darathen is waiting again with the network maps blessedly close at hand.

“Thenvunin?” Uthvir asks, as they take the offered scrolls.

“At the training grounds,” Darathen informs them. “Shall I have someone fetch him?”

“No, do not disrupt him,” Uthvir decides. “But maybe send a runner to inform him that I am back in one piece. He has been worrying, of late.”

“Of course. Is Inava going to recover?” their agent asks, with just a note of obvious concern leaking past his attempts at professional decorum.

“So far as we know,” they assure him.  

The next few hours are then eaten up by the need to attend to the matter of the unsanctioned roadwork and the attack on their agent. Without Inava’s official report in yet, there is no  _definite_  sign that Andruil was involved. But someone from the empire surely was, and Mana’Din must be personally debriefed on the matter, as it affects the crossroads. They end up seeing Thenvunin only briefly, in the afternoon, as they head for one of the city’s eluvians again, to take Mana’Din to the site of the suspicious activity. Several of their agents should already be there, too – dispatched to make sure there will be no furthering tampering with the area.

Thenvunin comes, but they are in the midst of conferring with Mana’Din, and can only spare him a nod and take a moment to appreciate the relief in his features, before they must speed away again.

It is sunset by the time they get back.

Sunset, and some of the orchard trees are sporting golden leaves. The day has been long, and unpleasant. Their skin is still tingling from so much time spent traversing and lingering in the crossroads, and their agent is still bedridden in a little village off the network, and they have gone from feeling strangely tired by using magic in an uncomplimentary setting, to riding the edge of a ferocious adrenaline rush. Given the chance right now, they think, they would happily cut down Andruil in her most terrifying draconic form, drench themselves in her blood, and then have wild and enthusiastic victory sex with Thenvunin. And also possibly eat an entire roasted boar, and drink enough bloodwine to drown a man.

Andruil is securely in her wife’s spring palace according to their reports, however, and the palace kitchens are serving local hens baked with goat cheese and berries, rather than boar, and of course there is no bloodwine, so they are mostly prepared to get in through the door of the chambers and find Thenvunin passed out on a chez somewhere, utterly exhausted himself and also thoroughly uninterested in picking up where the morning left off.

They slough the less comfortable parts of their armour off, when they get in, and find Thenvunin in the garden instead, however. Checking on some of the vines, by the looks of it. The sunlight drifts through his hair, as he stands on the tips of his feet, and reaches upwards. It is a good pose. A long, beautiful display of his outline and musculature, as the purple in his outfit shimmers, faintly. After a moment, Thenvunin turns towards them, and smiles.

“Oh thank goodness,” he says. “I was worried you would be gone overnight. You should not be spending the night in unsecured locations. Not with…”

Uthvir prowls towards him, and he trails off.

“I would not have slept without you, my heart, nor lowered my guard,” they remind him. Stalking closer, with a definite  _intent_  sinking into the air around them.

Thenvunin responds by blinking rapidly a few times. And then licking his lips, and drawing his gaze up them. He shivers, just a little, and reaches up to absently fiddle with the fastenings of his collar.

“You left me in quite an impolite state this morning,” he reminds them.

Uthvir finishes closing the distance between them, and responds by gripping his hips again. Just like this morning, but from the front, this time, and oh yes, they are still  _very_  much in the mood for him. They tilt their head up to capture his lips, pulling him close as he leans in and blushes and the air around him flutters with anticipation. And then a moment later they decide that it is not enough, to be leaning up, to be just holding him like this, and they pull him down to the grass instead. Crouching over him to claim another, hungrier, much more thorough kiss. They bite down on his bottom lip, and clutch him close, and sweep their tongue into his mouth.

Thenvunin clutches their shoulders, half on the grass and half lifted from it, and projects a heady mixture of desire and surprise and arousal.

After a moment, though, they make themselves pull back.

“Is this alright?” they ask. Their voice low and husky in their own ears. “I want to fuck you. I want to pin you down and tie you up and come inside of you, as many times as I can.”

Thenvunin makes a low sound of mingled embarrassment and pleasure, as his pupils widen, and chases it with a breathless groan.

“Yes. Do… that,” he decides, with a helpless little wave. His cheeks darkening even further.

Uthvir grins, and gives him a careful once-over, before they start to pull off his clothes. They strip away his armour and adornments, vest and tunic, pulling off every scrap until he is just bare skin atop sweet grass. Beneath fading light. Then they unwrap the sash from their own belt. Red, vibrant,  _bright_  red, that feels like a banner of theirs as they tie his wrists with it.

He looks so beautiful, like this, that they slide down his body. Trailing nips and kisses across his chest, before they set upon his arousal. His flushed cock is fully erect and so soft where they kiss it. Where they drag their tongue across it, but do not quite take between their lips. Recalling the morning’s accusation of  _teasing_  as they skirt the very edges of what they know to be his limits, playing with the middle of his shaft – less sensitive than the rest – before venturing up to lick the head of him, or down to the soft skin of his testicles. Providing only light touches, until his hips are twisting and he is hiding his face with his bound hands.

“I do think yours is the prettiest cock I have ever seen,” they tell him. “It is always so obliging towards me, too.”

 _“Uthvir!”_  he protests.

They draw their tongue slowly up him again, and hold down his thighs as he twitches and tries to move closer to the heat of their mouth. Instead they lick him in long, slow measurers, taking their time with the matter. Watching every tremble of his muscles, listening to every break in his breaths.

They pull back again as he twitches in a very telling fashion, and then when he looks back down at them, they offer him their best smirk.

“Come?”

Thenvunin curses, and to their delight, actually  _does_. He spills over himself and onto their chin a little, and then makes another delightful noise as they carefully lick him clean. Their own arousal is pressing insistently at the front of their pants, though, and watching him go lax only makes them want to take him even more. They pull back enough to gather him up from the ground, and to him inside. To soft mattresses and soothing oils, and cool sheets, that crumple underneath him as they lower him onto their bed.

“I was already coming,” he mutters. “It was  _not_  just because you told me to.”

They cannot help but snicker a little at the protest.

“Truly? How tragic for me,” they drawl, as they settle him onto the bed.

Thenvunin lifts his chin – and then lets out a long, resigned sigh.

“Shameless. Why do I bother…?”

“Why indeed,” they hum, and lean in to kiss him. Slower, this time, and more savouring. He relaxes with it, as Uthvir brushes a hand across his cheek, and then deepens it. They draw their tongue against his in a way that makes his toes curl, and their own heart beat faster. Then they trail the tip of their nail across the angle of his jaw, and up to the point of his ear, before they pull back again.

“You are nothing to be ashamed of,” they inform him. “So how could I be anything but shameless with you?”

“ _Romantic_ ,” Thenvunin accuses, eyes bright.

Before they can possible respond to that, then, he reaches up for their collar. Twisting his bound wrists between them so he can get a grip, and pull them in for another kiss. One that taxes their restraint. On multiple fronts.

They take their time again, all the same. If they are going to really go at him – and they intend to – then it is important they go slow  _now,_  and make certain he is ready for it. Even though part of them is tempted to just rut against his thighs, the thought of the reactions he tends to have when they are actually inside him is enough to convince them to carry on with their plan, as they pull the oil from the bedside table, and bite kisses into his collarbones. They move between his thighs and press his legs back and apart, then, and start to thoroughly work him open. Toying and teasing again, as they slip their fingers between his cheeks, and take a brief detour to sink their nails into that pert flesh – just a little – before softening them enough to safely fit them inside of him.

By the time they are satisfied, the bottle is empty, and Thenvunin is hiding his face with his hands again. Stifling his noises into the fabric of their belt sash, which is still tied around his wrists.

They lean up, and gently push his hands up over his head instead.

“Let me see you,” they ask.

His cheeks are flaming, but he keeps his hands where they put them. The air around them burns with arousal, as they call some magic into their fingertips, and coax his nerves into singing wherever they draw their touch down along his torso. When he is straining towards them again, they free themselves from their pants, and finally give into the urgency they had first felt that morning.

They press his legs as wide as they can comfortable go, and thrust into him in one swift, smooth stroke, that makes him gasp and kick outwards, and almost pull his hands reflexively down again.

A whispered spell, and the fabric weighs itself against the pillows instead.

They grasp his hips, and pull back, and then thrust into him again. Transfixed by the look on his face, as he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, and leans his hips in towards them. The fiercer the pace, the more flushed he becomes. He is warm and slick inside, and so good as they set up a ragged rhythm. Watching as his flushed cock bounces with the sway of the mattress. Leaking between them, brushing against their stomach every time they lean in.

“ _Thenvunin,”_  they call, when he starts to turn his face to the side.

He meets their gaze, instead, and gasps as it syncs up with their next thrust into him. Another curse slips out of him, and he bites his bottom lip.

“Harder,” he says.

They push his legs further upwards, and go harder. Lost in the warm slide of flesh, the sparking pleasure rising up their belly, and the sound skin hitting skin. They dig their nails into his thighs with force just shy of drawing blood, and angle his hips further and further upwards, until they get him at just the right position to make him twist and cry out in pleasure at the onset of each inward stroke.

And then their own pleasure is too swiftly rising, too high and too good, and they do not want to pull back. They come inside of him with a groan, stilling and gripping him tight, as their vision all but whites out, and their pleasure sparks in the air as well as their skin.

Thenvunin twists, and tugs, and they reach down and finish him off in turn, as they linger inside of him. They lower him down after a moment, though. Their ragged breaths resounding, as Uthvir cancels the spell holding up his hands, and pulls out only so they can settle against him. Chest to chest.

“Give me a moment,” they request.

Thenvunin slips his arms over their shoulders, and buries his nose in their hair, and makes an inarticulate but oddly soothing sound.

“Stay right here,” he counters. “Kiss me until I fall asleep, and then sleep with me.”

Uthvir lets out a long breath.

They meant to…

…But. It is warm, and oddly comfortable, for all that they are still dressed, and both of them are messy and disorganized. After a few more minutes of breathing, they reach up and untie Thenvunin’s hands, and get them both under the blankets, at least. Shucking off a few more uncomfortable articles of clothing, and pressing languid kisses to some of the bite marks they have left.

Thenvunin runs a hand up and down their side.

“Are you alright?” he asks them.

They blink, a little muzzily.

“Yes,” they say. “This is… perfect, actually.”

Thenvunin smiles.

“Good.”

 

~

 

_The spymaster has a hundred problems, and you had best not be one of them._

That phrase is whispered among the agents and sentinels who serve Mana’Din – typically into the ears of the higher ranking subjects, who will understand the implications. Those who look towards the rest of the empire, or the worst of the rebellions, and see the wrong sorts of opportunities. Those who abuse their power. Mana’Din does try and promote for genuine merit and good character, but Elvhenan is a society built upon exploitation, and certain patterns are engraven into it firmly enough that it is only too easy for the less-than-virtuous to follow certain currents. Embrace particular trends, and follow them to the wrong destinations.

She never thought she would acquire a spymaster as adept and trustworthy as Leliana had once been. But Uthvir is. They have slipped into the role ably and thoroughly, and almost unofficially as well; working their way towards it through this assignment and that mission, scouting work and censuses and secrets, until Mana’Din woke up one morning and suddenly recognized what they were.

The perfect ascent for their line of work, really.

She does not turn a blind eye to their dealings, however. Ultimately they do much too much for her to also keep track of it all – it is a full-time job just for  _them_  to do it, and she has a territory to manage and politics to balance, and rebellions to sort out, and her own plans and efforts to put underway. But she knows when they get their hands dirty. Knows the costs of trying to reform this empire, and knows that their claws are not  _just_  for show.

Mana’Din’s spymaster does not keep rookeries full of messenger birds. They reserve avian interests for their lover. Instead they keep shadows in the Dreaming, and whispers in the lower halls, and shrewd-eyed agents who trade secrets with smiles.

When she began this endeavour, she had hoped, at best, to be a ripple. To change one thing, and then another thing, to stop one travesty, and then another, and hope that by dint of effort, the empire would come kicking and screaming into a new way of being. A less cruel one, if nothing else.

Sometimes she wonders if Solas had hoped the same thing, when he began his own revolutions.

But now the doors to other possibilities have been flung open, and every year that creeps past, it gets harder and harder to ignore that there will not be a peaceful change of standards. That even though she is no Falon’Din, Mythal grips her power just as tightly, and that the upsets required to actually  _change_  history – change it in more than just names and roles and a footnote about an ancient pretender – are not things which her family would allow to develop as any matter of course.

There will be more blood.

Falon’Din had spilled so much. And now Andruil has stained her streets – not quite so entirely, but enough. More than enough. The rush of it, Mana’Din knows, the mass killings, those are things that are generally disapproved of. Mythal is not pleased about it, but it is not because Andruil is killing her people. It is because mass deaths provoke mass upsets. Death is much easier to overlook when it is quiet, and occasional. Ceremonial, or unseen. But there has always been blood on her aunt’s hands. Even if they never fell upon Uthvir or Thenerassan in this world, Mana’Din is not so naïve as to suppose that means they have not fallen upon others.

Time will not wither the evanuris’ hold on Elvhenan. It will not reform them. There will be no quiet rearrangement of the order of things – Mana’Din has seen more worlds than this, more atrocities than even those she already knew about. She has seen plenty, by now, and all of it has only confirmed what she knows she should have accepted from the start.

There  _will_  be more blood, and the real question is only  _whose_  blood.

Mana’Din watches as her spymaster and their lover progress down one of the palace corridors, locked in discussion with one another. Uthvir’s shadow is long, and Thenerassan is armed. The both of them carefully cleave to their sharp edges, wary and watchful as they have been since the tournament. Uthvir spares a hard look for one of her ambassadors, also passing by. Mana’Din makes a note of it, and wonders what the man did to merit their undisguised ire, as his steps quicken in turn and he makes his way down towards the interior corridors.

Whatever his misstep, she is certain she will hear about it soon enough. And perhaps find herself deliberating over his future.

Her other self does not share her hesitations over which approaches to take to the dangers of Elvhenan… though she does, ultimately, understand a great deal of Mana’Din’s perspective.

They share the same roots, after all. They are one another, and they are not one another. Lavellan is younger, nearer to the pain of a world’s death, and the loss of her lover, and the new life built up out of its ashes and in the care of Uthvir and Thenerassan. She loves them as fiercely as Mana’Din loves Dirthamen, and without conflict. She has no love to lose among the evanuris.

In a way, it almost feels like a relief.

Whatever potential Mana’Din has ever had, Lavellan must have it as well. Lavellan could kill an evanuris, given the opportunity. She could do what Mana’Din has found herself unable to.

Sometimes she wonders if a version of herself who never knew Solas, never loved him, could have saved the world before. If that was always her failure. Her weakness.

Attachment.

But, funnily enough, she thinks her Aunt Andruil would agree with that assessment. And that makes her wonder twice about it. Though it does nothing to dispel the weight of it, either.

At least there doesn’t seem to be much of a limit to it. And as time passes, and brings all of its hard revelations along with it, it also brings  _more._  It brings Elalas. It brings Uthvir and Thenerassan and Lavellan. It brings bridges between worlds, and it brings spirits of Pride, and faces she had once thought she would never see again. It brings the faces of people who have begun to look to her, not as though they are waiting for the other shoe to drop, and not as though they are seeing some mystical figurehead that they must bow and scrape to. But as though they have begun, with precious and tentative hope, to trust her.

_The spymaster has a hundred problems, and you had best not be one of them._

Uthvir glances towards her, as they rest a familiar hand against Thenerassan’s lower back.Their expression turns questioning. But after a moment, Mana’Din only inclines her head – acknowledgement but also dismissal; she does not require them – and lets them carry on.

She has never had the warning about them whispered to herself, of course. But more and more, she finds herself thinking that she should endeavour to limit their problems, too.

Andruil will not be getting her hands on them. Nor will any other evanuris be claiming  _anyone_ from her territory.

And that, she knows… that will make problems all its own.

 

~

 

Watching Thenvunin train new recruits is always an interesting experience.

Back when they had first come into Mana’Din’s service, of course, Thenvunin had largely kept his sparring sessions limited to Uthvir, or Mana’Din. Or Lavellan, as she got older. He had not wanted to fall out of practice, but neither had he felt comfortable with letting just anyone put their hands on him. Particularly not in the context of violence. Uthvir is a great admirer of Thenvunin’s martial prowess, and they also take no small amount of comfort from the fact that he can hold his own in most fights. Especially in Mana’Din’s lands, where his rank means he is rarely obliged to refrain from defending himself for political reasons.

But if he were to put the entire pursuit aside, Uthvir would understand. Or. Well, perhaps not understand in the sense of ever having felt a similar urge themselves, but they would not object to it, anyway. After all, Thenvunin has Uthvir at his disposal, if violence is required.

He had not, though. And as time passed he had begun to express more interest in combat and military matters again. Of course, by then he had little reputation for such things among Mana’Din’s other followers, who knew him more as an event planner than anything. The few who were aware of his combat abilities had only ever seen them in the context of his occasional spars with Uthvir, Mana’Din, or Lavellan, as well, and though Thenvunin is an able fighter, Mana’Din and Lavellan are both  _exceptional._

And Uthvir cheats.

Which had somehow conspired to create the impression that ‘Thenerassan’ had muscles for largely decorative purposes, and was only mediocre in combat.

Uthvir has made certain that the rumour persists among the majority of the non-combatant populace of Mana’Din’s territories, and beyond. It has been a challenge, given Thenvunin’s fair ranking in most tournaments, and it must be balanced against the requirements of him being taken seriously in his commands. Mana’Din’s people have more respect for martial prowess than most of the rest of the empire does – more like Andruil’s hunters in that regard – but they are still largely prone to favouring magical aptitude, and this is a useful distinction. Maintaining the impression that getting past Thenvunin’s spells is a sure way to defeat him is a good safety precaution. It means few of their potential enemies will be expecting him to cleave them in half with his bare hands, and that is the kind of surprise that can turn the tide of an entire battle under the right circumstances.

It has the bonus effect of making new recruits  _utterly_  unprepared for the reality that Thenvunin is more than capable of handing them their asses.

He was always a good fighter. Time, and the attempts of his sparring partners to drill more pragmatism into his style, have made him better. And while Mana’Din’s forces have made strides in actually training new recruits, good instructors are still somewhat hard to come by at times, and being a parent has forged a decent teacher out of Thenvunin, too.

Uthvir watches the second recruit of the day hit the dirt.

Thenvunin tsk’s in disapproval, gleaming in his armour, and dispels the last fragmented piece of the younger elf’s barrier.

“Arrows will not wait politely for you to finish gesturing on the battlefield,” he informs his recruit, before reaching over to help them back onto their feet. “Cast quickly, or do not cast at all. You have a perfectly serviceable shield in your hand. I expect to see you at least  _attempt_ to use it.”

There are some snickers from the other recruits, though the one who preceded this particular victim looks more sympathetic. It is difficult to appreciate how  _hard_  Thenvunin actually hits until one feels it. Uthvir leans a little more fully against the fence in front of them, watching as Thenvunin moves back into position. The fluidity of his motions, the hint of rippling muscle beneath cloth and armour, is especially captivating when he is intent upon a task.

And training young elves on how to not die is a task he is  _very_  intent upon.

“Spymaster?” one of the younger recruits asks, approaching Uthvir’s post at the fence.

They raise an eyebrow.

The recruit clears her throat, and shifts a little. She is in a set of the typical training gear, which is humble even by hunters’ standards. Even most low-ranking elves in Arlathan would be hesitant to be caught in soil-stained leathers and wool, but Mana’Din’s territory is different, and a recruit’s gear gives little indication of their rank or merit. Still, Uthvir makes it a point to keep track of these things, and so they know this one is from a village out by Irassalas. One of the smaller agricultural settlements that specializes in livestock. She had joined on with the official army of the territory after her apprenticeship with a blacksmith had dissolved due to ‘irreconcilable incompetence’. Uthvir has not noticed any particular lack of coordination or intelligence in her so far, but then, they have not been looking too closely. If she is not fit for combat, Thenvunin will not beat around the bush.

“Is it true you are married to Commander Thenerassan?” the recruit asks them.

“He is my beloved,” they hedge, with enough confidence to make it seem like they are not hedging at all.

The recruit clears her throat.

“And is that a…  _closed_  relationship?” she presses.

Uthvir straightens up a bit more, and gives her another look over. She does not seem abashed by their scrutiny. Her mother was one of Andruil’s before she came into Mana’Din’s service, they know, and perhaps it is simply prejudice speaking – but they feel a note of wary dislike begin to settle into them.

It is, in fact, not a closed relationship.

But they know it is reputed to be. That they have earned some notoriety for being possessive, and eccentric, and not harmlessly so.

“Why do you ask?” they settle on countering.

The recruit raises an eyebrow of her own, and offers a shrug.

“He is very handsome,” she asserts, as Thenvunin sets up his next victim. “And people who are skilled at  _physical_  pursuits are often good in bed.”

Uthvir meets her gaze. There is a cool sort of interest about her, but little else. Either she has a talent for projecting indifference, then, or she truly does just have a fairly casual investment in her query. They glance away, briefly, as Thenvunin shatters another too-slow barrier. At this rate he is going to have the entire recruit base running laps until dawn.

“He decides for himself who he is interested in,” they allow, at length. Then they curl their lips, more in a pointed show of teeth than any kind of grin. “And if he is not interested in you, I will make certain you do not  _overstep.”_

The recruit inclines her head in acknowledgement, and then politely backs off, with less nervousness than Uthvir would like.

They keep a different sort of close eye on Thenvunin’s training session, after that.

At length, the lesson shifts from demonstrations and practices of shielding and deflecting, to more advanced dodging. The sun gets higher in the sky, and the recruits shift out of some of their leathers; and Thenvunin strips down to his waist, to better be able to move and keep up his energy as he takes on more of his pupils by turns. Which Uthvir a chance to watch his muscles move as he demonstrates a few dodges by having one of the more competent recruits try and hit him, and then switches and gets another to attempt to emulate him. Showing them how to use magic to amplify their reflexes, and how to weave deflective spells more quickly.

Of course, killing one’s opponent before they can attack is always more effective, but one is not always in position to be the ambusher on battlefields.

It is interesting, Uthvir supposes. The distinction between armies and hunting parties. The way the rules and requirements shift.

The curious recruit gets chosen for Thenvunin’s next round of demonstrations. She has also taken the liberty of stripping down to her waist, revealing a very narrow figure, that would probably be considered quite aesthetically pleasing in Arlathan. What musculature they can detect on her is either very subtle or wholly undeveloped.

Uthvir straightens, just a little, in case they need to act.

But the recruit does not do much, at first, except flounder and trip over her own feet a little, and stand just a bit too close when Thenvunin helps her back up again.

“You are  _very_  strong, Commander,” she notes, then, and Uthvir narrows their gaze. And then almost laugh as they realize the approach she is taking. She tilts her head demurely, and offers one of Thenvunin’s biceps a pat. “And so broad shouldered! I do not think I have ever seen a man built like you before.”

Thenvunin looks faintly offended.

“Yes, well. Developed musculature comes of this sort of activity. I am sure you will see plenty more just like me, once you riff-raff are finally fit for active duty,” he declares.

The recruit looks like she’s been caught a little wrong-footed.

“I admire it,” she assures him, and tries for a coy look.

Thenvunin shifts uncomfortably, and glances towards Uthvir. They catch his gaze, and make a brief, questioning gesture. But then he just shakes his head a little, and looks back at the recruit.

“Well, good,” he decides. “Because if you can actually  _learn_  how to dodge, then you might end up with a broader build yourself. Now, return to your post, please…”

Uthvir tries not to feel quite so happy about it when Thenvunin’s would-be pursuer is so firmly rebuffed. She heads back to the line, looking slightly frustrated and faintly embarrassed, but none the worse for wear. Thenvunin finishes his demonstrations with the rest of the recruits, and by the time they actually break for lunch, he is covered in a thin film of sweat, and looks fairly winded.

He heads towards Uthvir, and leans against the fence beside them. Pausing to brush some of his hair away from his face.

“Training days are  _exhausting_ ,” he declares.

Uthvir slides a little closer, and reaches for him. They are not even quite certain what they mean to do, at first, except that they are feeling a little bit possessive. Something in him relaxes when they get their hand on him, though, and as he glances towards them, they lean over and press a kiss to his bicep.

The air around him fluctuates, just a little, and Uthvir feels a rising note of mischief in themselves.

“You really are very strong, though,” they say. “And so skilled and graceful. My dashing Thenerassan.”

He shifts, and looks back at them.

Uthvir flutters their eyelashes, and attempts their own version of a coy look.

They are a little surprised at the answering spark of heat he gives off. Even as his lips twitch.

“Dashing, am I?” he asks them.

“Mm.  _Very,_ ” they confirm. “I have it on good authority. And she was not wrong about your shoulders, either, you know. I like them. They are very useful, especially for  _leverage._ ”

Thenvunin blushes. But then he lifts his chin, just a little.

“I suppose you would know,” he permits, with a gleam in his gaze. Uthvir’s coy look gives way to a grin, and that seems to be the cue for Thenvunin to lean in, and claim a surprisingly affectionate kiss from them. Cupping their cheek, and swaying into them so that when they part again, he is nearly resting their forehead against theirs.

“You are alright?” they check, more seriously. Their voice low going low and private.

Thenvunin smiles.

“My heart,” he says. “I am much better than that.”

They let out a breath, and then kiss him again.

 

~

 

Thenvunin is having a bad dream.

Uthvir picks up on it from their offices, about four hours after Thenvunin retires for the evening, and two hours after they leave their chambers to go and double-check the information in several documents in their secure files. Information which they have more or less confirmed, now; and so they close up the office again, consider their options, and then head back for their chambers. Fear listening, all the while, to the Dreaming, and the tremours that they have learned to associate with Thenvunin’s nightmares.

They could wake him, but they are generally loathe to disrupt his sleep. When they finally get back home, the rooms are quiet. Fear is close enough, now, to chase away the rival spirit which had instigated the nightmare to begin with – but on their own, they are not terribly good at banishing bad dreams in and of themselves.

 _I will do it,_ Uthvir decides.

Fear acquiesces; willing to concede the floor, as they settle into a chair in Thenvunin’s room. The man himself is sleeping with a deceptively peaceful look to his form, even in the dark. But the emotions around him are telling. Snapping with vague notions of distress and anxiety.

It takes them a minute to follow him into the Dreaming. Not quite falling asleep, but definitely not remaining conscious, either. It is instead rather like stepping into a room full of steam, with a moment of intense disorientation, before Fear helps their consciousness find the right way up again, and the world resettles into the endless webs and ever-changing forms of dreams.

They almost recognize this one.

Thenvunin has had such dreams before.

In this one, he is in the middle of an impression of Andruil’s great hall, surrounded by grotesqueries. Elves and trophies, in distorted forms. Bears and lions, drakes and wyverns, with cracked skeletons and disturbed taxidermy, and shapes that shift in ways both intimidating and surreal. Only some of them alive and moving. The walls are lined with rustling wings; the floor is damp with bloodied feathers. Uthvir keeps their gaze up, and looks around the hall. It does not take them long to locate Thenvunin. He is dressed in rags and chains, with Andruil’s writing on his face once more.

They step into the firelight, through the shadows themselves, and begin looking for a way to end the dream. It is a matter of Thenvunin’s own psyche, now, which complicates things. There is no spirit to chase off, and disrupting matters too badly will just wake him up – or possibly worsen the dream. Sometimes Uthvir and Fear’s own perceptions can work against them, here, and actually make nightmares more difficult to escape.

They have barely begun, however, when the mood of the dream shifts of its own accord. The throngs of distorted figures sweep aside, and an illusion of Andruil makes her way down from a set of ostentatious steps which have suddenly manifested.

She is not alone.

Uthvir still in surprise, seeing themselves – a figment of themselves – being dragged along after her. Chained around the neck, and Andruil never chained their neck. It is, they suppose, a coincidence that the image is more in line with Falon’Din’s behaviour. But the picture still feeds into a moment of pure disquiet for them, and not in the least because this illusion of themselves is also naked from the waist up. Topless, and with the scars on their back bleeding as if freshly made.

“I think a special feast is in order, to celebrate my latest victories,” Andruil declares.

The mangled hunters let up a cheer.

Thenvunin looks stricken.

Andruil yanks on Uthvir’s chains, and pulls them closer. They note, with some stray curiosity, that they are not wearing her markings again. Not like Thenvunin. The marks on their face are Mana’Din’s; a stray abstraction of the dream’s, they supposed. Andruil takes their chin in her hand, twisting in a harsh grip, and Uthvir fights not to feel the echoes of that touch on their own skin.

“We always knew it would come to this, pet. Did we not?” she says, to them. “How much could I take from you before I tired of it? Before I took it all?”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow, and catches the drift of the dream as Andruil then pulls out a sharp knife. Thenvunin cries out in protest, and tries to push through the throngs of hunters. He seems uncommonly ineffectual, as several grab him and hold him back, and begin undulating against him in an unpleasantly sexual fashion.

As disturbing as it is, Uthvir at least sees their opening.

They let Fear carry them through to the illusion of themselves, still standing before Andruil’s knife.

It is only a dream, after all. But they feel a rush of adrenaline, of power, as they settle into the nightmare, and find themselves staring into familiar, golden eyes.

Andruil raises her blade, and in the same breath, Uthvir’s magic surges. They snap the golden links of their chains as if they are nothing but tinder, and catch her hand. Poor form, for Andruil, though they supposed the gesture is meant more for drama. Still, they barely have to struggle to disarm the illusion, and then it is a simple matter to twist themselves around and slit Andruil’s throat, in turn.

The moment in the dream slows. Shock and near-deafening disbelief, as the life drains out of the illusion. Andruil does not slump in a bloodied heap – or, even more realistically, summon up a volley of magic, or turn into a dragon. She does not even try to heal herself. Instead she turns into a pile of bones and fur, and what seems to be corpse dust.

Uthvir regards it for a moment, before tossing the knife up, and catching it in a better grip.

The blood running down their back is an unpleasant distraction, and disquieting; and so they do away with it, not healing so much as letting the dream erase that illusion. They are not injured, after all. It has been a long time since those scars were last re-opened.

The distorted hunters are easy to banish, in turn. Uthvir cuts away a few persistent ones, but Fear simply obliterates most of them, as they make their way over to Thenvunin. The ones holding him let him go, and flee, shrieking incoherent threats and curses and promises that the now-dead Andruil will not stand for this.

“She will be back!” one of them spits, from a face that looks like a hollowed-out antelope’s skull. “You cannot escape, you never will be rid of her!”

“How trite,” Uthvir accuses, and throws their knife through the thing’s skull for good measure.

Thenvunin is on the floor.

The dream is already beginning to properly shift, as they kneel down in front of him. It is funny, they think. One of the only places where they are ever taller than Thenvunin seems to be the man’s own dreams. They wonder if he would like them better that way; but they suspect, in some sense, that it is more a matter of perception. Subconscious illusions.

He seems them as more than they are, they suppose.

But if it is comforting to him, then they will hardly object.

They reach for him carefully. Curling a careful hand over his shoulder, testing his reaction. He bows his head further, and then leans in towards them. Shaking, just a little. His own shirt is gone – torn away – and there are bruises on him, and gauge marks, too. Uthvir trails their fingers carefully over the worst of them, and brushes them away. They try to get Thenvunin to his feet. He lets out a choked sound, though, and nearly falls over again.

They catch him against their chest. Their size shifting towards a familiar form; Thenvunin knows what it is like to be held by them, and it seems he wishes for that sensation. The anchor of familiarity.

“It is alright,” they say. “It is alright, beloved, you are safe now.”

Thenvunin’s gaze is blank, in that purely distressed way of his. They let out a soft, soothing sound, and brush a hand across his cheek. And then they consider the matter, and trace their fingers up to the lines of his vallaslin. Pressing their thumb over the markings, and chasing  _them_  away, just as they did the bruises and gauges. The unwelcome bite marks. Andruil’s vallaslin has no more place on Thenvunin’s skin than any other injury forced upon him.

When they are finished, he is bare-faced, and breathing more easily.

“There, now,” they say. “No more bad dreams.”

“Uthvir,” Thenvunin murmurs. “What happened to your wings? Did she do that?”

Uthvir blinks, and then glances over their shoulder; and they see what Thenvunin must be seeing. The spreading tendrils of Fear, reaching out into the shadows of the dream. Normally spreading out makes things worse. But tonight, Fear is doing a fine job of keeping things in check. The shadows are placid; the kind that hide those who need hiding, rather than monsters and danger. Secrets and safekeeping, instead.

“Pay it no mind. It is just a dream, my heart,” they remind him, swallowing back their own rush of insecurity.  _He can **see**  us!_

Thenvunin lifts a hand from their chest, however, and presses it tentatively to the shadows reaching up through the scars on their back. And just like that, more and more of the dream’s illusions begin to slip away. Uthvir swallows as their skin breaks. Like gold plating flaking off a cheap artisan’s imitation. Most of it sticks, but, its status as a veneer becomes more apparent, and the darkness beneath is pitch black. Their claws grow long, and their fangs do, too, and their vision shifts and fractures, and shows them Thenvunin in shades far deeper than the dream itself. They can see the tethers linking him back to his body; the ripples of his consciousness throughout the Dreaming.

He goes still, and frightened.

Uthvir eases their hold on him, but even though he straightens, he does not pull away.

 _It is a dream,_  they remind themselves. And Thenvunin will not remember it. Fear is already holding the pieces of it tightly, clearing away the nightmare so that it cannot chase him back into the waking world.

They seize the moment, in an odd fit of longing. They cup his cheek, and lean in, and press the sweetest kiss they can to the corner of his mouth. Savouring him, before he inevitably pushes them off, or steps back, or asks another question. Or voices his horror at them. They close their eyes, and focus on the feel of him. The echo of his heartbeat that they can hear, still thrumming in his veins.

Thenvunin’s arms come back around them.

His grip is tight.

“You are beautiful,” he tells them.

Uthvir reels in shock.

The repercussions are abrupt, as their body reacts to their mind’s unexpected upheaval. Slipping into the Dreaming has its moments of disorientation, but suddenly flinging themselves  _out_  of it is positively nauseating. For a moment Fear is stretched too far between the two states, and Uthvir finds themselves seeing dreams overlaying reality, and is so nauseating and out-of-sorts that they nearly through up. Their heart pounds against their ribs, and when Fear finally catches up to them it is in a rush of confused flight-or-fight instincts that has them lurching up out of the chair and crashing to the floor of the bedroom in an uncoordinated heap.

Thenvunin sits up.

The lights come on, which does  _nothing_  to help with their disorientation.

“…Uthvir…?” he asks.

They curse themselves.

All that effort to  _not_  wake him…

“It is fine,” they assure him. “Go back to sleep.”

Thenvunin blinks muzzily down at them, as they quickly make their way back onto their feet – nearly  _too_  quickly, as they sway a little in place.

It earns them a frown.

“Why are you sleeping in the chair again? Did you fall out?” Thenvunin demands, blinking. “You are all… wobbly. Come to bed, if you are that tired. Why would you go back to using the chair? That is ridiculous…”

They grab said chair for momentary support, and try to make it inconspicuous. Slowly, the room is starting to settle down again. The ceiling, at least, has stopped spinning.

“I was not sleeping, I was just resting,” they say.

Thenvunin squints.

“Were you watching me sleep again?” he asks.

Uthvir considers their options.

“…Yes,” they decide.

Thenvunin sighs, and finally lies back down.

“Well, come and do it up close, then,” he murmurs.

They let out a breath. He does not remember, they assure themselves. He does not remember, and even if he did, it was only a dream. All is well that ends well; at least the nightmare is done with. And, they suppose, given that the room seems unlikely to stop tilting, lying down might not be a bad idea. They give it another moment before they risk making their way across the room, and then they settle onto the opposite side of the mattress.

Thenvunin murmurs in approval, and flops an arm over them. And then makes a sound of protest, as he realizes they are still fully dressed, and sets around pulling and prodding at them until they find enough coherence to get the offending pieces of armour off.

When they are sufficiently disrobed, Thenvunin determinedly wraps one of the blankets around them.

“There,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep, and his eyes already closed again. “Much better.”

Uthvir sighs, and presses their nose against a few stray strands of his hair.

“You have a point,” they concede.

But their heart does not stop racing nearly enough for them to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

The outfit, they know, is not actually one which Thenvunin  _intends_  to be provocative.

That it shows some skin is, in its intended context, more challenge than anything else. Even now, they are surprised to see him put it on for the intended meeting with Mythal’s latest delegation. They wonder if it is the fact that it is  _Mythal’s_  delegation that has given him the nerve for it. The outfit falls away from the strong lines of his muscles, revealing the taught build of his chest, and his arms, and doing absolutely nothing to soften the broad line of his shoulders. The flimsy, transparent cloak draped over them serves, if anything, to make him seem even larger than usual.

It is  _doing things_  to Uthvir nevertheless, however. The past week, Thenvunin has been atypically assertive with the members of Mana’Din’s advisory, and the delegates of other leaders. Clipped, almost, and unyielding, to the point where, when one of the advisors from the outlying regions suggested trading several lower-ranking elves to Andruil as a form of appeasement, Thenvunin bodily threw the man out of the chambers.

Uthvir had to pull fair few strings to secure the meeting hall itself, six hours later, so that they could pin Thenvunin to the table and properly reward him for his confidence.

They would not have him imagine that any hesitations or distance on their part is the result of some failing on  _his._  Indulging in a few ravishments is a fairly effective method of reassurance, they have found; though, so is keeping to his company, and not shying away from it like an addled spirit. Even if, of late, they cannot banish the memory of his voice, echoing through their dream.

_You are beautiful…_

As if  _he_  should be one to talk.

The best part, Uthvir thinks, as they watch him get ready for the first meeting with the delegation – the very best part – is that they cannot see much hesitation in him at all. He dresses to meet Mythal’s people, Mythal’s meticulous, restrained, condescending tribe, the alternate versions of many of his former peers, in an outfit that most Peacekeepers would hesitate to adorn themselves with. Displaying every inch of his physical strength, and height, and breadth. And he does not seem the least bit disquieted to be in his own skin.

Not today, anyway.

Uthvir can hardly help themselves. When it is done, and he is dressed, they come up behind him, and trail their touch down the long dip of his ‘neckline’. Which does not close until well below his navel. They feel him still, and then shiver, just a little, as their sharp points trail carefully over his skin.

“How long is the meeting?” they ask, as if they do not already know.

Thenvunin clears his throat, and catches their hand.

“Fourteen hours,” he says. “ _Behave.”_

There is a gleam in his eye, though, and a twitch to his lips. And somehow he stands even broader, when he turns towards them for a moment. Still holding their gauntlet against his palm.

They wonder how they could ever have put on enough armour to keep him from getting beneath their skin.

“I am going to spend fourteen hours thinking about spreading you out over the Meeting Hall table again,” they muse.

Thenvunin’s cheeks colour, delightfully.

“Stop that,” he insists, with less actual insistence than he would probably like.

They back down for now, though. After all, they have fourteen hours with which to whisper leading comments, and offer not-quite-inappropriate touches, and make certain none of Mythal’s people try to cross them. They’re going to need their stamina for that.

And almost  _definitely_  for the follow-up, too.

 

~

 

Matters with the delegation from Mythal’s territories do not go quite so well as they might.

The lady herself is set to visit, in the coming year, to stay with Mana’Din for three months. Supposedly a ‘family visit’, a matter to do with Mythal pining for her granddaughter’s company, but Uthvir would not buy that story even if recent events were  _not_  what they are. As it stands, there are only really two places in Mana’Din’s territories which would meet her grandmother’s standards for a relatively long stay. One is the hidden estate, which is obviously not terribly viable; the other is the palace in Daran.

Which means the city can expect a full procession passing through, which is always unpopular, and even apart from the public’s tension over the prospective visit, there are many other factors to consider. Uthvir is willing to trust Mana’Din with her grandmother, to an extent, but that trust has limits. Mana’Din is, in many ways, Lavellan, after all. And Lavellan is easily compromised by love and affection, and her sense of attachment to people.

Which is why  _she_  is of a mind to assassinate Andruil, of course. And most of the other leaders of the empire, too. But the complication lies in the fact that for Mana’Din, said leaders  _are_  the people she is attached to. Uthvir is not certain, in truth, whether her compassion is stronger than her sense of familial loyalty.

They are not eager to find out, either.

The best solution they have at the moment, however, is to attempt to anticipate what Mythal will be after, and prepare for those eventualities. To that end, they have diverted somewhat from their assessments of Andruil’s activities to investigate more of her mother’s comings and goings, and that of the peacekeepers as well. Mythal is both a harder and easier target than her eldest daughter; by having her hand in most of the goings-on in Elvhenan, it is not difficult to piece together the grand designs of her general aims. But being spread so far and wide can also make it tricky to deduce the  _particulars_  of her plans, especially in the short-term.

For the third night in a row, Uthvir leaves Thenvunin sleeping in his bed, and goes and settles in at one of the meeting hall tables. Their desk is all well and good, but they want the extra space to set out some maps, and activate the spellwork in them. They are going over several reports, considering some inconsistencies which they have found when the door to the room opens.

Thenvunin walks in, and shuts it behind him. They frown, checking him. He is wearing a light robe over his nightclothes; it is unusual for him to leave their chambers in that state of dress. But the air around him seems only mildly unsettled, and they can detect no particular alarm, urgency, or sense of fear to him. It is more likely that he is fretting over their sleeping habits again.

They glance back at the maps, and debate on how to reassure him as he heads over to the table. But the are not quite so distracted that they fail to notice it when the robe he is wearing slides to the floor. An errant piece of pale fabric which crumbles without sound.

They raise an eyebrow, and then still in genuine surprise as Thenvunin brings his hands up to the fastenings at the top of his periwinkle nightgown. He does not quite meet their gaze as he loosens them, unbinding his collar enough that he can push it down his shoulders.

The nightgown slides off of him just as quietly. He is quite naked underneath. The light in the room settles across the familiar angles of his body in a very complimentary fashion, as he makes his way over to where Uthvir is still sitting; slightly stunned, because for all that they have done with Thenvunin, in all the places they have done it, this is not a brand of boldness that they were expecting. Especially not with so little forewarning.

They remember themselves only once Thenvunin begins to climb into their lap. They are wearing their armour, still, and though it is not the  _worst_  set for this sort of thing, it is not the best, either. They curl an arm around Thenvunin, and help to settle the majority of his weight on the smooth plants of their greaves and the leather underside of their right bracer. The scenario is dreamlike enough that they have to check, as he leans in towards them, naked and blushing.

“Was there something you needed?” they ask, and their voice manages to come out with very little waver. As if he had simply tapped them on the shoulder. They are almost proud of that, all things considered.

Thenvunin hesitates. Close enough to kiss, his cock pressed up against their belt, as he rests his hands on their shoulders. He bites his lip, and Uthvir’s eyes drift down to the soft indentation left by his blunt teeth.

When the silence draws on for a little too long, they press him a bit closer, and lean forward. Settling more of his weight against their arm, so as not to leave him wedged uncomfortably against the table, as they reach up to brush some of the hair from his face.

“Beloved?” they ask.

They blink again when he catches their hand. Pulling their palm to his face, and pressing a kiss to their wrist.

“I am worried for you,” Thenvunin says.

Which is not at all what they are expecting, with him having just settled naked into their lap.

Uthvir curls their palm around his cheek, and frowns. Somehow they do not think this is about their sleeping habits again.

“Well you have certainly gotten my undivided attention,” they inform him.

Thenvunin sighs. And then he surprises them again when he leans as fully in towards them as he can, and claims a kiss from them. His thighs slide down around the chair, and his arms wrap around their shoulders. His movements are careful, and his mouth is hot and sweet, as he kisses them like he is trying to physically draw some secret up from between their lips.

It makes them think of the dream, again. Of all the odd, unsettled feelings it has provoked in them.

They meet his kisses, and spread their hand across his back, as his hair brushes against their cheek.

When their lips part again, Thenvunin rests his brow against theirs. His grip on them tightening, a little.

“If someone has hurt you  _again,”_  he whispers. “I will… I will beat them senseless, at the very least, I  _swear!”_

Uthvir blinks.

“What?” they manage.

They feel like they are missing a great deal of context for all of this.

Thenvunin looks at them sadly.

“You think I have not noticed?” he asks. “ _Something_  has upset you. Or someone. Did someone presume something? Attempt something? I will have you know, as much as you have promised not to let anyone lay a finger on me, I will not stand for some disreputable fiends making untoward moves towards  _you_ , either. You have a right to yourself, just as much as anyone, and I know you think you are very clever and that you are sometimes above being bothered about such concepts, but I also know that you are  _not_  above it, and if anyone has hurt you I want to know.” His voice drops, turning surprisingly fierce and intent, then. “I want to know so I can make certain they never try it again. I will go and do it right now, if you tell me.”

Their eyebrow arches upwards once more.

“Right now?” they ask, trying to lighten the mood. “While you are naked?”

Thenvunin’s cheeks darken further, but he does not budge.

“If you think I would not cut down Andruil herself with nothing but my skin and a sword, I do not think you have been paying close enough attention,” he tells them.

And that is…

Hmm.

“Now there is a terrifying and attractive mental image,” they concede. They would not place Thenvunin in the same room as Andruil again if they could at all help it, but especially not  _naked._  The prospect of watching him soundly beat her at combat under those circumstances – however unlikely it might be – is… surprisingly appealing, however.

Thenvunin claims another kiss from them.

“Tell me,” he asks, against their lips.

The man usually fails at subtlety, but it is an altogether unique effect when he is not even  _aiming_  for it.

 _“Uthvir,”_  he pleads, in a tone usually reserved for moments when they are doing far more than kissing. It is just as hard to resist as ever, though, and a soft growl works its way out of them as they tilt their head, and nip at his lips; and then press kiss of their own to him, in turn. They keep him steady with their right arm, but let their left trail down. Caressing the back of his shoulder, before dropping it to brush over the side of his thigh.

Their mouth drifts across his jaw, and they pause at the corner of it. So close to his ear.

They could tell him.

And maybe he would call them  _beautiful,_  again. Maybe he would not care. Maybe he would…

Maybe he would draw away in disgust. Betrayal. Contempt.

_Pain._

“No one has hurt me,” they tell him. “It was only a dream, that has lingered with me. But I know it was not real. I just… wonder, at times, if it could be.”

Thenvunin pulls back a little, and looks into their eyes.

There is so much concern in his own. Concern and affection, overflowing between them. So precious and addictive, it seems, that Uthvir has forgotten how to live without it.

“A dream?” he asks. “What about?”

They close their eyes.

“Andruil,” they say. It is not wholly a lie. Andruil  _was_  in the dream, after all, even if she is not the element that has stayed with them. The part that is even harder to forget, when Thenvunin’s arms tighten around them, once again. And his lips press against their brow, and they feel his resolve settling over him like a steel mantle.

Settling over them both, in fact.

“I am not gifted at dream magic,” Thenvunin admits, sounding pained over it.

“You do not need to be,” Uthvir assures him. “It was just one dream. I can keep another from happening; do not fret.”

Thenvunin looks skeptical. But a few more kisses, a few more touches, and some of him subsides. He sighs against them, then, and shivers when they trail the tips of their nails across his skin. Tracing patterns, and warming the air a little, as they take some better advantage of having him in their lap like this.

“Was there anything else on your mind this evening?” they wonder.

His hips shift atop theirs, and they glance down, confirming that his active libido is starting to take proper notice of the situation at last.

“Because,” they continue. “I think I have developed a fondness for the notion of spreading you out on every flat surface in the palace, at some point.”

Thenvunin makes a vague sound of protest, and their lips curl upwards in satisfaction.

“This is  _symbolic_  nudity,” he informs them. “It denotes intimacy.”

“Mm. It certainly does,” they agree.

This mood is better, they think, as it shifts. Less perilous, and also less pained. They carry on with it, falling into familiar patterns as Thenvunin buries his fingers in their hair, and they settle their hands on his hips, and start to move him against them. They call up a little magic, and lick their way into his mouth; and provoke another mewl from him as the sensation is echoed elsewhere.

The sound carries rather nicely.

Thenvunin’s cheeks  _flame,_  and Uthvir smirks in earnest.

“Really, Thenvunin, are you trying to tell me you crawled naked into my lap and expected me  _not_  to ravish you?” they drawl.

He purses his lips at them.

“I suppose that would be unreasonable,” he agrees.

 

~

 

Mythal’s arrival in the city goes about as badly as Uthvir had anticipated – but not  _worse,_ which is something.

Preparations for the procession take up several weeks, as several city streets must be remodelled, and access must be restricted in order to prevent anyone from doing… much of  _anything_  that the citizens of Daran would be inclined to do to Mythal, come to it. Ghilan’nain may have officially claimed the title of ‘Mother of Monsters’ among the leaders of Elvhenan, but it has gained popularity and a wholly different set of connotations among certain communities within Mana’Din’s territories.

Uthvir is expecting attempts to cleave the head from this dragon, and they are not disappointed. A group of travellers, supposedly from one of the outlying cities, is caught when one of their agents notes a discrepancy in their vallaslin; Nameless insurgents. They apprehend another elf whom Elalas tips them off about, a former follower of Elgar’nan’s with a very deep chip on his shoulder, and aspirations towards remote assassination. And though they have yet to discover the culprits behind the attempts, they uncover several very cleverly done and illegal runes along the city’s main roadways, and take some time to dig out. Left untended, they seem poised to ignite any elf wearing Mythal’s vallaslin.

Uthvir will give everyone full credit for effort, and they also deeply appreciate that no one more clever than their unnamed runesmith emerges before Mythal and her entourage manage to make it safely from the eluvian gates to the palace itself.

Not, of course, that this is the end of it, by any means.

A proper imperial greeting requires celebrations, of course. Mythal has brought along some of her best and brightest, to flaunt – knowingly or unknowingly – in front of those she has cast aside; the Pride spirit which Lavellan has become so taken with, and ‘Thenerassan’, of course. This world’s Thenvunin is among her attendants, and Uthvir is not pleased to have both versions of Thenvunin  _and_  Mythal in such proximity, for such a lengthy stay.

Not that it is considered lengthy by  _Mythal’s_  standards, but it is uncommon for any evanuris to linger in Mana’Din’s territory for more than the length of a celebration or council meeting, should she end up playing host to one of those. Less than a month; more commonly, not even a full week. Even Dirthamen has not spent more than a two months in residence with his daughter. Mythal seems set upon a new and strange record, by inviting herself to remain for three.

The theme of her procession appears to be silver. Her attendants dress in robes of spun moonlight and starlight and smoke, contrasted by the brightness of Mythal’s own gown. Whiter, even, than Mana’Din’s formal wear, and streamlined in such a way that seems at once to be an acknowledgement of minimalism – Mythal wears only teardrop pearls and diamonds, with thin chains, and shimmering fabrics with little patterning – and a pointed remark, that even in the fields of simplicity, Mythal is more expert than her granddaughter.

It is the sort of thing that would have Sylaise’s people in a stir. To do the equivalent to Andruil’s people would immediately inspire posturing and challenges. If Mythal’s entourage ever arrived at the huntress’ hall wearing finer pelts and meaner armaments, Uthvir would have been obliged to arrange for at least  _one_  of them to badly lose some kind of contest.

So it takes them the course of the first evening to figure out what Mythal’s jab is not landing on Mana’Din’s people. When the welcoming party begins, the beauty of her procession seems to slide off of everything else. Raindrops on waterproof feathers. There is neither envy nor admiration nor disdain, in the manners that Uthvir would anticipate – which is bad, in a way, because it means they have misread something about the situation.

It comes to them as they watch their Thenvunin conversing with several of Mythal’s commanders. They have one eye on him, looking for signs of distress, or fatigue, or too much strain. But so far he has been doing better than  _they_  have, it seems. He has spoken with Mythal’s people without so much as flinching, and even passed his alternate self with a polite apology, that did not seem to invite any suspicion from nearby observers.

Both Thenvunins are well-dressed, of course. This world’s is done in the fashion of Mythal’s attendants. His colours are subdued silvers, with just a hint of ocean blue, and a wide collar that offsets his shoulders and displays the shimmering paint on his collarbones. Whereas Uthvir’s Thenvunin is clad in rich purples and ivory, the formal armour pieces they gifted him shining brightly against the deep eggplants and swirling purple-reds, hanging artfully from the obvious canvas that is his cultivated musculature.

And that… that is true, in varying ways, for most of the rest of them. Uthvir is in a very nice set of armour – pretty enough for a celebration, but still suited to actual combat as well. It is red, of course. Elalas and some of the other advisors were given leave to forgo this formality, and so the more on-edge types are not in attendance. The others who have come, advisors and managers, high-ranking elves from other cities, diplomats and military leaders, all have more of their own style. Mana’Din’s bodyguards – including Lavellan; recently returned from the Hidden Estate – are dressed in white, like her. But there is no sea of uniformity to their end of the gathering. The celebration is too large, and the territories’ priorities too different, to permit for a mass coordination of outfits between busy and hard-working elves, whose duties extend well beyond matters of image and aesthetic.

Mythal has outdone  _Mana’Din’s_  look, but because Mana’Din’s followers are not styled in her image, the overall effect of having shown up the entire party has failed to land. Instead, Mythal’s people look… restricted, Uthvir thinks. Quaint. Like a field of tiny star flowers next to a riotous jungle of plant life.

Mythal herself does not seem demonstrably bothered by the situation. But a few of her attendants seem frustrated over this development. The air buzzes around them, caught up in flares of annoyance and a futile kind of upset. As if they have come prepared for a game, only to discover that their opponents are not playing by their rules – and yet, technically, no rules were agreed upon, either.

The realization settles something into place for them. They had not been quite certain of how to proceed with their own social element, they realize. They have their  _aims,_  of course, but balancing Mana’Din against Mythal is not quite like balancing Andruil and her mother. But as the evening progresses, they determine that it does not matter so much, for their part. If everyone is playing by their own rules… Uthvir certainly has a set. And so they let their countenance grow every-so-slightly predatory. Striding with the same kind of command they learned at Andruil’s side, not bother to disguise the presence of weapons upon them. Nor the sharpness of their teeth and claws. They trade niceties and quips, and let their gaze linger in ways that make Mythal’s people shift uncomfortably. Hastening to get away, even if they do not seem to quite know why.

They make the atmosphere  _disquieting._

Because the advantage in the situation is in playing upon Mythal’s people’s insecurity, that they do not know the parameters anymore; and that will take away at least a little of Mythal’s own effectiveness. And perhaps let them glean more of what she means to accomplish with her visit.

Still.

They are courteous to Thenvunin’s alternate self. Who approaches them a few times, throughout the evening, asking polite questions about the local gardens and the city’s pursuits.

Their own version comes to claim their attention before midnight, however. He has been doing little to subvert their efforts, it seems; the attendants he was speaking with look scandalized, and  _Thenerassan’s_  expression is surprisingly unrepentant about it. He makes his way towards them, and eyes his alternate self with less disquiet than he typically employs. Uthvir can smell just the faintest hint of alcohol on him; detect the slightest waver of mild inebriation, but they are surprised to find that it seems mostly superficial. Put upon.

He is acting more drunk than he is.

“Thenvunin, is it not?” he greets his other self.

So close, their similarities are as striking as their differences, Uthvir thinks. The restrained, silvery attendant of Mythal, and the bright, liberated warrior of Mana’Din. Their Thenvunin looks bigger, though it is more, Uthvir thinks, that he is not trying to downplay the effect. Instead he settles an arm around their waist, and raises his chin, as the native Thenvunin musters his response.

“It is. Thenerassan,” he manages, his voice raising, just a little. His own chin coming up, and Uthvir cannot help but think of a pair of roosters, sizing one another up.

“Be nice, Papa,” a new voice interjects, and Uthvir feels a rush of inexplicable gratitude as their daughter strides towards them. She is still in her attendant’s garb, white strips of fabric and pale armaments, with a half mask covering the top of her face. “You can hardly blame Thenvunin for showing an interest in Nanae, after all. They are very striking this evening.”

The Thenvunin in question balks, of course, at the assertion that he has shown an  _interest_  in Uthvir. His feathers ruffling as ‘Thenerassan’ greets their daughter, and by contrast, seems to lose all of his bristle. It is good timing, Uthvir determines. They are not precisely  _adept_  at navigating the reality of two Thenvunins. Part of them wants to sweep this version well away from Mythal; but most of them is aware that he would hardly thank them for it. Matters are not simple, after all.

“It is a misunderstanding. If anyone was showing any interest at all, it was clearly  _in_  me. I hardly came all this way for dalliances, after all. I am one of Mythal’s most esteemed subjects. My first concern is my lady’s well-being and best interests, and one can  _hardly_  see to such things if they are spending their nights roaming about with – with  _questionable_ figures,” the Other Thenvunin insists, sniffing disdainfully.

Their own makes the sort of face normally reserved for painful secondhand embarrassment.

Or would this be secondhand, all things considered?

Uthvir feels a rush of nostalgic fondness, for their own part. As silly as it is inevitable. Lavellan does not seem to be immune from it either.

“Ah, I see,” Lavellan replies. “You are a reputable sort, then?”

“Most definitely.”

“And an attendant?”

“Yes,” the Other Thenvunin confirms.

“Good,” their daughter says. “I have been hoping to speak with someone of your standing on some matters pertaining to security. If you would not mind, I have a few minutes away from my lady…?”

Uthvir watches as Lavellan deftly coaxes the Thenvunins apart, and wonders who, out of all of them, she is aiming to rescue. Most likely it  _is_  all of them, they conclude, as the Other Thenvunin goes along with some clear disappointment.

After a moment, they lean a little closer to their own.

“Are you jealous?” they wonder.

Thenvunin sighs.

“Only a little,” he assures them. “…I miss having less tension in the air. I think I became spoiled for it.”

Uthvir spares a glance to their immediate surroundings, and then settles a hand at his waist, in turn.

“I will see you home tonight,” they promise. “I would stay, but…”

“I know,” he assures them. There is too much to do, for them in specific, in the wake of Mythal’s arrival. They need these hours to be watchful, and make certain that nothing slips past their safeguards – or anyone else’s, for that matter.

Thenvunin chuckles.

“Mythal’s attendant will be disappointed,” he muses. “He is likely even now expecting that you will steal away into his chambers in the dead of night, and have your wicked way with him.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“Is he?” they ask, letting their voice slink towards a drawl. Thenvunin glances towards them, with just the faintest hint of pink high up on his cheeks.

“Mm. And unlike me, he does not even know what he is missing,” he replies, to Uthvir’s delight, shifting just a bit as they run their thumb over some of the bared skin at his side.

It is a good opening. They wish they could pursue it; but then one of their agents catches their eye, and the interlude is done with. They do manage to spare enough time, in the end, to see Thenvunin back their chambers. But then they have to be off again. An entire wing has been cleared for Mythal’s contingent, up near Mana’Din’s own rooms. It is, by virtue of Uthvir’s efforts, the most secure part of the palace, but they can ill afford to have misguided young elves trying to sneak into the wrong person’s garden on some Assassination Dare and end up in  _genuine_  trouble. So patrols are quadrupled, and that is on top of their usual intelligence reports and continuing eye on Andruil’s behaviour. It has not escaped them that now would be, in some respects, a good time for her to attempt something.

The night is long, and interrupted periodically by the Other Thenvunin crossing three hallways to imperiously demand to know what Uthvir is doing outside of his room, in a way that heavily implies that Uthvir should be  _inside_  of it – though with enough plausible deniability to suit him, of course.

It is easy to take this Thenvunin as silly and haughty and far more transparent than he believes.

But with the gift of a new perspective to read him by, Uthvir also sees the brittle loneliness, the edge of desperation, the confusion and war between impulsive desire and meticulously-crafted reputation.

They find themselves tempted, in fact, to follow him to his rooms. They remember how he used to be, in bed with them. All that seemingly dynamic setup, and the he would just turn into a lump. Trying to arrange himself to look pretty, to maintain some kind of dignity, they now see, in the midst of an inherently undignified act. Before it just used to baffle them. They thought he was making suggestions or using double-speak that they did not have the proper lexicon for, and that was frustrating; they thought they  _knew_  all the ways that innuendo was meant to work.

It had never occurred to them that Thenvunin did not know that sex could come without mistreatment. After all,  _they_  had managed to gather that much, and that was even with Andruil setting one of the world’s worst examples. How would someone so high-ranking and generally well-regarded not at least learn that he could be predator, instead of prey?

They wonder what this Thenvunin would do, if they were to kiss him breathless, and caress him just so, and please him until he was a whimpering, incoherent mess; unable to hold onto the last strands of his self-restraint. They have an unfair advantage, after all. They know everything he likes, possibly even better than he knows it himself right now. Provided he likes the same sorts of things as their own.

And then they shake the wondering away.

They have caused too many problems for one Thenvunin as it is. They do not need to complicate things for another, and that is even leaving aside the question of how their own would feel about it. Whatever their fondness for this version of Thenvunin, they would not dream of jeopardizing the feelings of the one they belong to.

 _You have done enough,_  they remind themselves, firmly.

And the night provides sufficient distractions to keep them busy, anyway. Nothing of particular note happens, but even with that, there are on patrol themselves, and there are some late debriefings and security measures to triple check. They would not lose much sleep over Mythal coming to harm, but if it should happen in Mana’Din’s territory… they have no idea what would come of that. What even Mana’Din herself might do.

After dawn they return to their chambers, but only to change, and have a quick breakfast with their family. Having spent most of the night trailing after Mana’Din, Lavellan has the most insights to her conversations with Mythal, so that becomes the central discussion of their meal. Even then, Uthvir cannot stay long – Mythal has decided to take her own breakfast out in the orchards, and though she is dining later in the morning, the location presents a fair number of security risks.

The orchards were built up with Daran’s renewal. They are an important part of the city, symbolically as well as practically, and are fairly well-trafficked and open to the air. Most people do not care for the idea of Mythal treating them like some novelty garden, and the terrain means it would be easier to set up some kind of an ambush there. Uthvir has had people in among the trees overnight, but they want to inspect the area themselves. Just in case.

They manage to get there an hour before Mythal and Mana’Din, and their accompanying attendants and bodyguards, are scheduled to sojourn through one of the more scenic parts of the orchard. The workers have been notified, of course, and Uthvir knows what should and should not be present. They find a few younger elves lingering a little too close to the area, but with more curiosity than anything else. Some of the orchard spirits are drifting through, too, interested by the change in routine. They are wispy, slender creatures, that change with the seasons. Uthvir has not seen their like in many places; not quite wild, not quite tamed. They do their best to dissuade them; it seems doubtful that they would benefit much from drawing Mythal’s interest.

They investigate some strange markings on a few of the trees, but a quick check confirms that the marks are security enchantments added by their own people. Everything seems to be in order, so of course, Mythal decides to delay breakfast by another hour in favour of touring through several of the city streets. With her granddaughter, at the least. Uthvir wonders if she is trying to encourage an incident. That would be like Andruil. Her mother, though… perhaps she is merely keeping an eye out for an opportunity. An opening. A chance to come and assert her influence, and thereby control.

They do not like that they do not really know Mythal well enough to guess.

But in the end, nothing visibly comes of it, so they are – at least – able to move on to the next matter.

The next few days are a strange sequence of events in many ways, in fact. Uthvir scarcely sees Mythal herself, and yet she has made herself a presence which no one in Daran seems capable of ignoring. Like a mysterious but persistent skin rash. There are complaints, though at least that is not Uthvir’s department. But it  _is_  Mana’Din’s, and Thenvunin’s, and Elalas’, and so the upper ranks are a mess of attempts at mollifying uncomfortable citizens whilst also appeasing Mythal and her retinue. A number of the lady’s attendants seem to have recovered from being caught wrong-footed on the first night, and have launched their own volleys of complaints – the food, the accommodations, the ‘ambiance’, the manner of spirits and décor and the lack of ‘sufficient entertainment’ in the palace or city. It gets chaotic enough that in the third week Uthvir organizes a ride through some of the wilderness for Mythal and her attendants, even despite the potential security risks. They are willing to bet the woman’s life that no assassins are actually lurking along the path they selected; and that if any  _are,_  they will not cross Uthvir, even if they might risk Mythal.

Riding with the excursion permits it to happen, but it also puts Uthvir in some proximity to the lady herself since her visit began.

She rides with her granddaughter for the first half hour out. Uthvir keeps one eye on the Other Thenvunin, in amongst a trio of attendants, while Lavellan and another pair of Mana’Din’s guard take up the rear. The effect is interesting, when Uthvir catches their reflection on the surface of some storm-dampened silver leaves. The guards and Lavellan like the hosts of a mourning procession, with Mana’Din seeming almost ceremonial. Like bleached bones framing a collection of wilting garden flowers, with Uthvir’s dark splash of crimson off to one side.

But after the first break, Mythal beckons towards them.

They encourage their mount to a polite distance away, and glance at Mana’Din. But her countenance is calm, even though her expression is currently impossible to read.

“You are Mana’Din’s spymaster,” Mythal greets. “The one responsible for all these security measures.”

“I am,” they confirm, with a polite inclination of their head.

“And you were at Andruil’s tournament,” she notes. “You placed well, as I recall. Impressively. I am surprised by how many talents my daughter has managed to find in unexpected places. One would think, all things considered, that her more noteworthy followers would have come from the esteemed subjects granted into her service by the rest of us. And yet, you are not known to me.”

“Adversity breeds innovation, Grandmother,” Mana’Din interjects.

“Innovation, yes. But skill is another matter. Where did you learn to fight, Spymaster? It is interesting style that you have,” Mythal notes. “I had not thought that Andruil had given Mana’Din many expert combatants. I supplied most of those. And yet, I must say, your techniques speak to me of a hunter’s aptitude.”

Uthvir is not sure what trap she is baiting, but they think discomfort would betray them more than anything else at the moment. Mana’Din is still calm.

“That may be because I am a hunter, Lady Mythal,” they reply, diverting their gaze towards the trail for a moment. “Or I should say, I was one. I was not always a spymaster, and hunting is a vital skill in these territories. I think you will find that many of Mana’Din’s people are expert at it, though it does not define our identity.”

Mythal nods, placid and politely curious, by all appearances.

“You used to like hunting with Andruil, as I recall,” she says, to Mana’Din.

“We often differed on the subject of appropriate prey,” Mana’Din replies.

It prompts a sigh from her grandmother.

“You should forgive her. Disagreements are understandable, but as I am always telling your grandfather, it does no good to let sweeping political matters dissolve familial bonds,” Mythal advises, with all the generous patience of a wise and maternal figure. Deeply concerned over the potential pettiness of her loved ones.

Uthvir cannot imagine that manner would go over well with Lavellan; and Mana’Din does not seem terribly swayed by it, either.

“Andruil has not expressed remorse, and I doubt she would be apt to offer any sincerely,” she points out. “And I am not the one who is owed apologies anyway. She has not slighted me. I have made no official complaint, beyond some concerns that her people have violated safety and routine protocols in attempting to establish a new network within the Crossroads. Comparing the situation to Elgar’nan’s inability to let me govern is unbefitting.”

“It is almost precisely the same,” Mythal counters. “You are both concerned over ideologies.”

Mana’Din’s countenance grows colder.

“I am concerned over the second largest mass slaughter of imperial citizens by one of their own leaders in recent history,” she says, sharply.

Again, Mythal sighs.

“You are concerned because you fear it is your fault,” she counters. “Just as you were the catalyst for your uncle’s actions, it seems certain…  _ambitious_  members of your following have brought about yet more tragedy. Tell me it is not guilt that has made you so intractable over this subject.”

Uthvir’s gaze slides sideways towards Mythal, and they let their mount’s pace slow, a little. Falling back, somewhat, into a range that would be less convenient for interceding, should anyone fire a stray arrow or spell from the nearby trees.

Mana’Din is silent for a moment.

“Granddaughter-“ Mythal begins again, in gentler tones.

“I do feel guilt,” she says, curtly. But somehow, Uthvir gets the impression that she is not speaking of it in the sense that Mythal has alluded to. It makes them think of a woman who wanders between worlds, and yet always seems to find the most broken ones. Trying to salvage pieces from the wrecks – willing to kill the copies of her own loved ones, to rescue veritable strangers. Lavellan’s long, dark nights, when sorrow and grief eat away at her, and there does not seem to be anything anyone can do for it.  _I failed them, I failed, I failed and my whole world paid for it…_

“It is difficult, to balance these things,” Mythal tells her. Then she nods. “But this is not a fitting conversation for this venue.”

“If you made this trip to play peacemaker for Andruil, I do not think we will find many fitting venues at all in these lands,” Mana’Din replies. “I will not make an appeasement to her. If her plan is to kill any followers who may be associated with my territories, then sending her people would be akin to killing them outright. I have, as you have mentioned, enough trouble with Grandfather attempting to undermine my efforts – apparently, the imaginary state of my territories is of more concern than the very definite blood-soaking of Andruil’s.”

 _“Peace,”_  Mythal says. “Do not think I am playing favourites.”

 _Ah,_  Uthvir thinks. But she is; not in the sense of social favourites, perhaps. But Andruil’s trends and traits are long-established and, in their own experience, not difficult to anticipate. Whereas Mana’Din’s rule is young, and already so different from the patterns established by the rest of the empire. Patterns laid into place during what was, for all intents and purposes, the same conflict. Replacing Falon’Din was an unprecedented move; a founding pillar of civilization knocked inwards. They suppose, all things considered, it is fair to assume that Mythal is fine with corruption, so long as it is the type that can be managed. Falon’Din was unquestionably a rotten, vile support beam – but it was only when he became impossible to manage that he was finally knocked in.

Mana’Din has few easily exploited vices. Mythal seems to have worked out the two points most easily exploited with her – guilt and attachment – but not how to steer those traits towards a more manageable puppet ruler.

Uthvir feels inexplicably proud.

More importantly, however, the conversation illuminates some of Mythal’s motivations for this visit. She is testing her leash on Mana’Din, they suspect. Her interest in them was not truly in them at all, but in seeing what will happen when she presses various switches around her granddaughter. That is why they are able to fall into the background once more, without much remark. Though they doubt that Mythal has completely disregarded their presence.

When the ride is done with, Mythal declares a desire to visit Mana’Din’s libraries. That trip lasts until evening, and is exhausting, if only because it is unplanned and therefore requires Uthvir’s presence once again. And the libraries have always been difficult to secure, open as they are to the public, with so many doorways and high levels, and good perches to hide behind. There is too much spellwork necessary to maintaining the archives for them to set up emergency security measures without disrupting it, either. And there is not enough time to clear out the general populace, who would take great offense at that anyway, most likely.

But Mana’Din does not refuse her grandmother, so Uthvir goes, and does their best. And at least an unscheduled trip is difficult for assassins to anticipate, since there would be no record of a plan for it, or means of predicting it. Opportunism might strike some, but even after five hours, there are no attempts. The most notable incident is when one of the city’s children ventures close out of interest, and then Mythal only pats her head and asks her a few light questions.

By evening Uthvir knows they will have to sleep the night, however, to make certain they are competent enough the next day. Mythal seems content to remain in her chambers after dinner, so Uthvir reroutes several matters to their more capable agents, sets up a few more safeguards, and finally goes home for more than a change, meal, or nap.

Thenvunin is waiting for them.

Not theirs. The other one. He is lingering outside of their rooms, feigning interest in one of the paintings on the wall across from their door.

Uthvir halts, and then lets out a breath.

“It is by a local artist,” they say.

“What?” Thenvunin asks, turning towards them.

“That painting,” they offer, with a wry nod towards it. “You were admiring it?”

“Oh. Yes, well. The…  _decorations_  here are very… different,” Thenvunin offers. The painting in question is one Uthvir likes, in fact, and not least because the heavy frame was very suitable to the insertion of spellwork. The image is comprised more of blocky silhouettes than delicate detail work, speaking in terms of shapes and impressions that evoke different responses from whoever happens to be looking, rather than in any clear message or narrative.

“To each territory its own preferences,” Uthvir reasons. “There are more such paintings further down the hall, but if you are interested in making a commission, I know the artist’s workshop. He usually makes armour, in fact, but paint is something of a preoccupation of his.”

“Ah, that – that will not be necessary,” Thenvunin assures them, a little flustered. He clears his throat, and gradually begins to move as if he might be on his way. But it takes him a while, and he glances at them a few times.

Uthvir is about to cave and invite him in, when their own Thenvunin rounds the other end of the corridor.

“There you are!” he says, striding over to them with a sideways glance at his other self. “Darathen said you were finished for the day. You must be exhausted, my darling.”

They are fairly tired; but not so tired that they fail to quirk a brow, as their Thenvunin sweeps his arm through his, and rather pointedly turns them towards the door. Giving his other self another  _look,_  that earns him a somewhat imperious, defensive glance in return. Uthvir supposes they are going to have to have a conversation about this, if it keeps up – as amusing as it is to see a pair of Thenvunins squaring off over them, it is not terribly productive. But for now they let themselves be escorted into their chambers, with Thenvunin managing a slightly more polite  _good evening_  to his other self, before shutting the door behind them.

 _“Really,”_  he huffs, once they are alone again. “You have been so busy, he should know better than to seize upon the first opening like that!”

“How would he know better?” Uthvir replies, amused. “I do not think he has my schedule memorized, beloved. And my sleeping habits are not generally public knowledge.”

Thenvunin sniffs.

“Still,” he says, which makes little to no sense. But Uthvir does not imagine it is supposed to.

They shift his hold on them, so that they can move in front of him. Winding their arms around his waist, mindful of the points on their armour. Thenvunin settles his hands on their shoulders, and leans down, expecting a kiss.

They oblige him, with a quick one.

“It is alright to want to have me all to yourself,” they assure him.

He sighs.

“Tonight I only want you to  _rest,”_  he counters.

Their lips quirk, a little, and they steal another kiss.

“Oh, really?” they say. “And what makes you think my own plans are not more lascivious than that? Perhaps I am not quite tired enough, yet…”

“If you do not  _sleep,_  you will regret it tomorrow,” Thenvunin counters. “And I am exhausted, too.”

They pull back a little, at that, taking a moment to look at him properly. There are some shadows under his eyes, and his hair is in the same braid they saw him use yesterday. Lifting a hand, they carefully brush the backs of their fingers across his cheek.

“To bed, then,” they agree.

“If you really want to…”

“I want to rest,” they admit. “And I want to hold you. And possibly feel you up a little.”

Thenvunin huffs, but if he is attempting to seem exasperated, it does not come through. His fingers move to the catches on their armour, but he simply rests his forehead against theirs for a moment. Not so perturbed that they worry, but enough that they end up tugging him along in the end. Pulling him to the bedroom, as they divest one another of enough clothing to get comfortable. Their bed calls, almost siren-like in its promise of warmth and comfort, and Fear settles with only a little fuss when they fall into its blankets.

Uthvir curls up against Thenvunin’s back, with their own to the wall, and settles their hands against his skin.

“Mythal,” Thenvunin murmurs.

They pause.

“Not the name I was hoping to hear,” they reply, pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder.

Thenvunin sighs, and pinches the skin of their wrist in reproach.

“Mythal does not make unreasonable demands,” he says. “She just… expects. And then you fail her expectations, and she forgives you. But that sets the bar for what you are worth, to her. The highest you will go, before you fail her expectations. If you cannot meet or surpass that same mark the next time she expects something, then you will drop lower. She tests it. To see if you will still go as far for her; or further; or if you have become worthless, since the last time she checked.”

Uthvir runs a hand slowly up and down the side of his thigh, and presses another kiss to him.

“She is testing Mana’Din,” they agree.

Thenvunin is quiet for a moment more. But he has not fallen asleep. They can tell.

“It used to seem so reasonable,” he says. “How did it ever seem so reasonable?”

They do not have a good answer for that.

Thenvunin carries on, anyway.

“I was not so concerned over it, before. But now, I find I am enraged at the man who still thinks it is reasonable. The other version of myself,” he admits. “I feel like he is dangerous, without a different perspective. Like he would make all the wrong decisions. I want to shake him; and I want to tell him to stay away from you. So he will not hurt you in his foolishness.”

Uthvir stills, astonished at his assertion.

“ _Me_?” they ask.

Thenvunin rolls over to face them.

“I know you could take him in a fight,” he assures them. “But I know you would not want to hurt him, too. You and Lavellan, you would both give him a chance, and I am terrified that he would use it against one of you.”

For a few moments, all they can do is stare at him, largely uncomprehending.

“Thenvunin…” they finally manage. But nothing else comes out. It is ludicrous, they think. The Other Thenvunin is, in many ways, the man this one used to be. He has all the same potential, and a life unmarred by Andruil’s cruelties. Perhaps he could hurt them, in some ways; but Uthvir can scarcely imagine why that would be such a fear for Thenvunin.

And yet, it is. A cold and aching fear, in fact. That his own hands, or deeds, even removed by way of an alternate version of himself, could cause them harm.

“You have never harmed me,” Uthvir finally points out.

“For a long time, I never helped you, either,” Thenvunin counters. “Just… please. Until things become safe again, keep a distance from him.”

They let out a long sigh.

“Are you certain you are not simply jealous?” they suggest.

Thenvunin moves a little closer, and presses a kiss to their forehead.

“Please,” he repeats.

They subside.

“As you wish,” they agree. “I will make more of an effort at polite distances.”

That seems to settle the matter, or at least enough for them to finally go to sleep. It is a decent enough night; Uthvir wakes only once, when Lavellan comes home a few hours later. Nothing seems to be amiss, so they rearrange the blankets and push some of Thenvunin’s hair back from where it has fallen into his face, and then drift off again. Claiming an impressive six hours, all together, before they wake with a sufficient amount of energy to the pre-dawn light.

They leave Thenvunin to finish his own rest, nestled among their covers, and check on their daughter, before setting off for their morning duties. Another schedule Mythal will probably disregard or edit to her heart’s content, and a decision to make on whether or not to reopen some of the roads that were closed for security reasons at the beginning of her visit. They also have to confer with Elalas on the movements of one of the more benign rebel groups. Some people have been planning less-than-lethal methods of subversion, but Uthvir does not think they will gain many productive results from spattering Mythal in animal blood or feces, no matter their goal.

So it goes. In the end they keep security measures as tight as they can, running most of their people somewhat ragged in three months’ time, but it is a sprint which they prove capable of managing. The atmosphere in the city is more disgruntled than anything, embittered over the expenditure of hosting an unpopular leader and acquiescing to her whims, but it is the kind of upset that is more easily resolved by ranting over a tavern drink than rioting in the streets. A few people try to bribe some of their agents, but those seem more along the lines of wanting to  _meet_  Mythal than necessarily kill her or ruin her week.

Two months crawl by, and then there is an attack on Mythal’s palace in Arlathan.

The initial report leaves the incident unclear, but there is indication of a violation to one of the eluvian networks, and an explosion. Mythal leaves, and Mana’Din goes, too, taking Lavellan along with her because eluvians have become a… more sensitive matter than most know.  Uthvir offers to go along as well, and Thenvunin, but urgency means they have no replacements ready and the operations of the city and networks within the territories must been maintained, especially if something should happen in Mana’Din’s absence.

It means that they can catch their breaths, at least. They take a moment in Uthvir’s offices, as Mythal’s people finish clearing themselves from the city, and six of Uthvir’s best agents leave to make certain no one is walking into any unexpected traps. Once outside of Mana’Din’s territories, however, Mythal is her own concern.

They think of the other Thenvunin, though. Of the man who has their own so worried, all of a sudden. Their gaze drifts towards their own, where he is settled in at his usual chair. Slumped, more like. Catching his breath, at last. It has been too long since he slept, they think. He cannot go on and on like they can.

“Do you-“ they begin.

A sharp rap at the door interrupts them. They look impatiently upwards as one of their apprentices bursts in, then, not even bothering to wait for proper approvals.

“Spymaster!” she exclaims, though. And her tone banishes their annoyance. Her voice is horrified. “The orchards are on fire!”

 

~

 

They are barely out into the hallway when the city alarms go up.

Thenvunin glances at Uthvir, but their expression is closed off. Sharp and intent, as they hurry down out of the offices and outside. Sigils are flaring to life by then, security measures responding, and Thenvunin thinks that it is very quick; but also that Uthvir will be angry with themselves that it is not  _quicker._  They make it outside to see the plume of smoke, rising up in the orchards beyond the palace walls. Magic wavering in the air, as more people rush towards them.

“It is the apple trees, in the northeast grove,” one of the city guard tells him. “The flames are burning hot and  _fast._  Not an accident. The anti-fire measures all activated but the water is just evaporating, and the earthen walls are not stopping the spread. The fire burns right through them.”

It is magical, then. Thenvunin frowns, his gut a heavy pit.

“We need to try and save as many trees as we can,” he reasons. “Have people start moving them out of the parts of the orchard that have not caught yet. Take them through the eluvian. If the flames are enchanted to seek out the trees, the gate will cut them off from following.”

“Only use the main gate outside the city,” Uthvir adds, their voice sharp. “Tell the guard to move into the crossroads  _now._  We have already had pathways compromised. If this is a trap, whoever is responsible could be anticipating this kind of move, and waiting to ambush us. Close all the other gates in or out of the city except for one emergency exit, and make certain none of the trees come inside of the city walls. If the fire is following them, the last thing we want is for the blaze to spread to the buildings.”

Thenvunin nods, agreeing, and sets about calling orders to the guards, grabbing runners and making certain they carry the right instructions to the right people. It only takes minutes, but the smoke is already growing. He can see, now, the anti-fire measures trying to counteract it. Huge walls of earth rising up between the groves, trying to smother the flames; only to have licking flares of red and blue and green buffet them back, in turn. Hungry, but not for air.

Fires like that do not fuel themselves on nothing.

“A rage spirit?” he wonders.

“At the least,” Uthvir replies, and then another runner dashes towards them, wearing the shape of a caracal.

“Sentries report figures fleeing towards the northeast road,” the runner calls, skidding to a halt. “Not city denizens. They want to know if they should capture or kill.”

“Tell them to stay at their posts. I will apprehend our arsons,” Uthvir asserts, and then turns towards him. “Look after things here.”

Thenvunin balks.

“Absolutely not,” he counters, and turns to the caracal. “How many figures have been seen?”

“Six,” she supplies.

“That is too many for you to take alone,” he decides.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“I assure you, it is not,” they counter. “And I can get there faster. Make certain to send word out to the other cities. A strike on our orchards could be part of an orchestrated attack on other farmland or resources. Guards throughout the territory will need to be informed, and someone will have to go to Arlathan to get word to Mana’Din, as well.”

Thenvunin frowns, but before he can argue, Uthvir’s form ripples in a flash of mingled light and dark. Their shape changes and reforms, wings spreading as a massive hawk lifts itself up into the air. He calls out, but gets only a vague reply, as he sees their outline spread against the backdrop of the rising smoke and warring earth. And then they take off, winging away towards the northeast road; quicker than a bird of that size should seemingly be.

The caracal is already gone again, racing off to take word to the sentries. A few nearby spirits, helpful sorts, are carrying messages as well. Thenvunin halts a Spirit of Purpose, and has it relay Uthvir’s instructions; and then he dashes towards the barracks, stopping only to pull on some armour and tie back his hair, before making for the eastern gate. The northeastern leads out to the orchards, and the thick of the flames. He transforms himself, then, flapping his own white wings and taking off at a run.

It is always awkward to try and fly without a water runway. Swans are not really built for just launching themselves from the ground. But a little magic goes a long way; although, up high, all Thenvunin can see at first is smoke and motes of broken light. Heat sears his feathers as he soars upwards, drifting to close to the massive black cloud building over the orchards. He veers away from it again, blinking back tears as he looks for the road.

There are spirit fragments, in the smoke.

Not the kind that might be used to start such a fire. The orchard spirits, he realizes, as he wings his way above the blaze. The orchard spirits are trying to fight the flames. He can see them moving, in and around the sigils. Figures of shifting light and colour, rising with the earth, flinging themselves onto the blaze. Trying to save the trees. But the fires are too hot. Their forms cannot withstand them, and so they break, and burst, and burn.

It is a horrible thing to see.

Thenvunin has to fight to fly higher, to keep up his speed and actually  _see_  the road. His wings strain and his magic flares, and the wind is working against him. But he manages. Forcing his gaze away from the decimation of the orchards, as he flaps and struggles, and smoke burns his nostrils. More sigils light up in his wake. The city walls waking, further measures coming to life. Spirits lifting up barriers, so thick he can see the reflections of them crackling in the sky overhead.

And above, along the curling ribbon of the road, there are flashes of magic.

Thenvunin speeds up, finally clearing the worst of the heat. The fires are spreading towards the wilds, he thinks, towards the roads and trees and the springs outside of the city, and that will need to be dealt with. But his heart is in his throat at the thought of Uthvir fighting alone.

He spots them. A splash of red between several figures, an easy target as he dives downwards and unfolds his body from the swan’s shape. Landing on elven feet, with his back to their back and his braid whipping around his shoulder, as he steadies himself and draws his weapons. Sword and shield. He can feel Uthvir’s magic crackling over his skin, like a familiar but agitated air.

 _“Thenvunin,”_  they say, a mingled burst of annoyance and worry and, despite themselves, affection.

“You are not allowed to fight without me,” he insists, brittle and fighting the lingering itch of smoke in his throat.

And then there is little time for further discussion.

The six assailants are all very well-equipped, in eclectic gear that nevertheless seems abundant in its enchantments. Magic flares as a rush of flame scorches towards them. Not as powerful as the sort that is ripping through the orchards, not nearly, but enough to make Thenvunin flinch, before a gold and black barrier bursts forth, and deflects it. Only three of the six figures he sees have weapons. The rest have their hands free, magic crackling at their fingertips, their poses betraying a lack of expertise for combat.

None of them are wearing vallaslin.

Nameless?

Or from the Unmarked Village?

Old narratives slide through Thenvunin’s thoughts, stories of those people who were not truly People, who turned on gratitude, and killed those leaders who fought for peace and unity, and drove ancient Keepers to madness. He feels a trill of fear that has not touched him for ages, and thinks of spells that drive away thought and reason and attachment. That reduce elves to animals who would kill their own lovers and children and not even blink.

And then he looks, and sees an elf wielding a weapon he knows.

The elf is unfamiliar. Or at least, the face they are wearing is. But the weapon is a sword Thenvunin once wielded himself, back when he was a commander in Mythal’s armies. A good blade, but not refined enough for his station once he had advanced. He gave it to one of his lieutenants, when she began expressing an interest in martial combat. Pleased and flattered that she thought his styles were worth emulating. He knows that weapon, he held it through many fights, and the pearls on the hilt and the reflective embedding on the blade catch the light in a way that makes his breath stop. Makes him think of hundreds of years spent fighting in Mythal’s name.

 _It could be a coincidence,_  some part of him thinks. There are many blades, many smiths who ape one another, many replicas and… and…

Why should he even wonder at this point, though?

The moment shifts as the elf wielding the sword in question charges forward, slicing through the barrier, and then the rhythm of combat steals everything else away. Thenvunin knows people who are very good at thinking their way through fights, but he is not one of them. He does better when he simply lets his body fall into the patterns he has trained it for, and loses himself in the patterns of action and reaction. Uthvir’s magic flares and curls, and they remain at his back, flinging their spear only to call it back to their hand with a flick of their wrist, as the air grows thick with fear and pervading sense of doom.

Not their doom, though, Thenvunin thinks. For all that they are outnumbered, they are certainly not outmatched; and when a glancing blow rings off of his shield, Uthvir’s spear splits the chest of the elf responsible, and then pins them to the ground. Thenvunin is not slow, but Uthvir is very fast, and brutal, and a tendril of their magic curls about his waist and lingers there, like an arm ready to pull him away from harm at a moment’s notice. He marvels at their ability to spare the effort for it, because they certainly are not holding back in deflecting the spells aimed their way.

Thenvunin keeps his own magic coiled tight, ready to use if the fight should drag on, and their opponents and Uthvir both grow weary from expending themselves. It is an old strategy, and one that has served him well – wait, and when all the other magic is weak, then his own will still be strong. Four of their opponents fall, by the time Uthvir has resorted to using their shortswords. Their magic is still crackling, furious and intent but Thenvunin worries that they will run themselves ragged.

A sudden gust of wind rises at his gesture, and abruptly slams the wielder of the sword he recognized into a nearby tree, with enough force to crack the trunk. She has no time to counter their effort; he sees her fear flare, smothering in the atmosphere of the skirmish, before her neck strikes the wood and both  _cracks_  echo sickeningly across the road.

Their final opponent lowers his arms from the flames he had been summoning. With little alternative but to surrender, it seems. Thenvunin squares his shoulders, straightening from his battle stance, but there is something about the look in that man’s eye…

Uthvir swears, sharply, and that is all the warning he gets before they grasp him tight and fling them both into the treeline, as the road  _explodes._  A wall of heat so thick and potent that it steals every ounce of air from his lunch, that it burns against his face and hands, consumes the entirety of the path they had been on. Thenvunin smells burnt hair and leather and flesh, and hears something  _roar_  with wrath and rage and fury. Deep enough to echo in his skull, to make something primal and small in him recoil in horror.

He lands between the trees, beneath Uthvir, his burnt face pressing to damp leaves that are almost a merciful reprieve, as spots flash across his vision.

Uthvir lets out a breath, though, and he feels a rush of alarm. Are they hurt? Did that hit them? He tries to get up, but their grip on him tightens for a moment, holding him in place.

“Stay down,” they warn. His relief at hearing them speak is visceral. If they can speak then they cannot be  _that_  badly hurt, cannot be in some blinding, terrible pain. He manages to look up, just enough to see the fires still roaring down the road. Jets of flame tear between the trees, adequately demonstrating why Uthvir would prefer to stay down for the moment. The bodies of their fallen foes all burn. Black, crackling corpses, now, injured and dead alike, and even the last who had been standing falls beneath the torrent of heat. Thenvunin can see him. A dark silhouette, still falling to its knees; though the fires have already licked the flesh from his bones.

The trees catch. The Spirit of Fury, huge and horrible, is an indistinct figure of many eyes and many more fists, burning white and terrible.

It is much, much stronger than Thenvunin.

It might even be stronger than Uthvir.

But it does not seem to have much of a sense of direction.

It smashes down against the road, scattering the shrivelled bones of the elf who had summoned it, and it roars and slashes at the nearest trees. Digging great trenches in the earth with its burning fingers, and turning its massive head up towards the sky. It opens its mouth to let out another inarticulate cry. Light drips between boney teeth, and red embers burn at the heart of its gaze.

“Stay here,” Uthvir says, very quietly. Whispering into his air.

He lets out a small sound of protest.

“I am not going to-“

“Thenvunin,” they say, in a tone that brings him up short. That he cannot ignore, because there is a note of pleading to it. “Do you trust me?”

He swallows.

“Of course I do,” he says. The ground trembles, as Fury slams two of its fists down in a fruitless gesture of pure rage. Some of the still-burning corpses on the road bounce. Thenvunin has to grip a nearby tree root to keep from slipping, and Uthvir’s nose brushes the skin behind his ear.

…And now is  _really_  not the time for him to suddenly be thinking of how attractive they looked, cutting down enemies left and right.

“Then stay here, and do not look,” they say. “Trust me. Stay here, and do not look, and in a few moments, that  _thing_  will be gone, and I will come back to you.”

“Uthvir…” That is a ridiculous request. Why would he not even  _look?_

“ _Please_ ,” they ask him.

It is not fair, he thinks. It is not fair of them at all to ask him to stay put and cover his eyes, like a frightened child, while they go and face down something he is not at all convinced they can defeat in any sort of fight. They have no reinforcements. No one else is here.

He reaches for them, fumbling through some leaves before finding their wrist, and closing his hand around it.

“I could not sit by and let you endanger yourself,” he tells them, low and fierce. “I could  _never.”_

It is not about trust.

He does trust them.

But he loves them, too. Much too much.

Uthvir kisses the back of his ear, and then lets out a breath.

“The fires in the orchard are likely bound to that spirit,” they say, so quietly. “It will retreat back to the Dreaming, soon. There is too little to hold it here for long.”

And once it is back in the Dreaming, it will be more difficult to find. The entire city could be on fire by then. If the city itself catches flame, there will need to be evacuations. Homes will burn. People could die. The palace will catch fire, and their chambers, their garden, Thenvunin’s birds, will turn to ash. The wilds will burn, too. Farmland. All these things which they have built over the graveyard of Falon’Din’s crimes could be burnt, just like the corpses strewn across the road.

He thinks.

“Can we bind it?” he tries.

Before Uthvir can respond, another gust of flame sears through the trees near to them, though. Uthvir covers his had as the branches above them catch fire, and pulls him along with them into a messy roll away from the heat. His skin is split, he realizes. His hands and cheeks are burnt, and when the fires come nearer, the heat is almost unbearable. It sears against his burns, and makes them burn anew. The ground is rough, Uthvir’s grip is tight, and he loses his sword and shield somewhere in the tumble.

Another wall of flame bursts into existence, not far from where they were. Veering off the line of the road. Fury shrieks, and something rich and dark, like the shadows of great spider legs, seems to wrap around them.

Thenvunin feels paralyzed, for a moment.

 _Run,_  he wants to tell Uthvir. Run, go, get away. They could do it. They are so fast. They could fly away, and Thenvunin would fight Fury, with everything in him. Perhaps it would be enough. There is no need for both of them to die, and he could not bear it, he could not…

And then something else shimmers before them. A huge and thick barrier, that stops the flames, and stops the  _heat._  Thenvunin almost cries as it is forced back, and a draconic figure descends upon Fury. Roaring an altogether different sort of roar, and carrying an altogether different sort of light.

Mana’Din has come.

 _Lavellan,_  Thenvunin thinks. Is she here, too? He looks, but there is no sign of her, nor anyone except for their rescuer. Second time rescuer, in fact. Uthvir pulls him up, letting out a breath of their own relief. He hears it, feels it brush against him, and is still processing what has happened when they begin to pull him away. Away from the fight, from Fury and Mana’Din. Some part of Thenvunin thinks they should stay and help, but the rest of him thinks he should get Uthvir away. Go find their daughter. She cannot be here, if Uthvir is pulling him  _away,_  they would never leave her to fight alone and they would know if she was here. They always know where she is, when she is near.

“Here, here,” Uthvir is saying, then. Settling him down against a nearby log, as his head spins, just a little. Their magic rushes over him again. Tingling, soothing where it settles against his skin. He blinks at them. They hold him steady, reaching for his jaw and tipping his head as their eyes stare keenly at his face.

Is it burned?

Has he been disfigured?

A horrible lump lodges in his throat.

“You are fine,” Uthvir assures him, though. “You are fine, beloved, it is healing. Give me your hands.”

Thenvunin does, and finally blinks his way through the heady rush of fear and adrenaline as an itching pain follows the path of healing magic across his skin. Uthvir’s hair is singed, and there is blood on their armour but he does not think it is their own. There is a gash on their jaw, a shining burn on the tips of one of their ears. He winces, at that. Such sensitive skin, to be burned. A little healing magic comes at his own call, and he carefully traces it over their ear.

Before he can do much else, though, they start pulling him to his feet again.

The sounds of roaring have stopped, he realizes.

So brief. It was  _so brief,_  he thinks, but Mana’Din is the one who strides through the burnt and ruined trees, with a shattered spirit essence in her hand and smoke staining the white of her mask, and armour. Dark smudges, like the fingerprints of disaster.

“Where is Lavellan?” Thenvunin blurts.

Perhaps not the most appropriate response, but he cannot think to ask anything else, at the moment.

“Looking for you, in the city,” Mana’Din replies. “She may be coming, now. Are you both alright?”

“Well enough,” Uthvir tells her. They squeeze Thenvunin’s forearm, reassuringly.

The crackle of flames, he notes, has ended too. Not like natural fire; of course, it never really  _was_  natural fire, in any sense. There are no embers left burning, not even the kinds of fires that would start of their own accord due to so much heat. The magical fire suffocated them all, and has left only a scorched mess of charred ruin in its wake. Some of it still steaming and smoking. The road looks like it has melted into a hardened block, almost paved, and they have a much clearer view of it than they should, thanks to the number of trees and woodland that has been reduced to ash.

Thenvunin cannot see the bodies that were left upon the road. He would think he was looking in the wrong place, but he can see  _things_  still left. Twisted lumps of metal, here and there. The melted remnants of weapons and shields. Likely even the sword he recognized. All else has been incinerated down to nothing.

He swallows. Tastes the lingering, cloying smoke on his tongue, and fights the urge to cough.

“There were six of them, that we saw,” Uthvir tells Mana’Din. “I think they mean to be seen, but not caught. They were unmarked. But their gear was too good for anyone coming out of the river villages, and I do not know how Nameless would get so far in past our security measures.”

Thenvunin glares at the distant, warped lumps of metal.

“They were Mythal’s,” he says.

“How do you know?” Mana’Din asks him. But she does not sound disbelieving, so he bites back the reflexive, unmerited anger her feels. He is not angry at  _her._

“I recognized one of their swords,” he tells her. As soon as he says it, though, he winces. Such a flimsy thing to make such a monumental accusation over. “It used to be mine, in another life. I know the smith who made it, and I recognized the design. I am not wrong. I know that blade, I held it in my hands through too many fights to forget it.”

Mana’Din inclines her head.

And then she sighs.

“I am inclined to believe you,” she says. “But that would not prove very much to anyone else.”

Uthvir shifts, and gives his arm another squeeze.

Now is not the ideal time to discuss such matters anyway, he supposes. And after a moment, Mana’Din says as much. They must get back to the city. To make certain that the fires have stopped there, too, and then begin cleaning up. It seems an exhausting prospect, all of a sudden. To have spent two months running around, attempting to mitigate the ramifications of Mythal’s presence, and then to have  _this…_

Thenvunin is almost surprised that his chief emotion over all of it is  _anger._

There was no cause for this. None. What did they do? Uthvir worked themselves to the bone making certain no harm came to Mythal. She was hosted, she was entertained, she was treated fairly and her needs were met, the city gave to her and she repaid them with… this? Why? It is a plan, he supposes. Other places may have been attacked. The assault on her palace… was that a ruse? To attack her own palace, and Thenvunin  _knows_  people who work there, good people, and were they hurt?

Oh, he can just  _hear_  it now. ‘I have lost valued people to these assaults, too, I am grieved, too, I have suffered, too’.

The trek back towards the city is silent, between the three of them.

Mana’Din takes the lead, soot-stained and still clutching the remnant of Fury. Thenvunin and Uthvir walk side-by-side, more slowly, taking careful breaths and banishing lingering clouds of smoke that cross their path. The air tastes like grease and dust. They avoid the road until they reach the point where it is actually cool enough to walk on. It will have to be repaired.

The city walls are shimmering, when they come back into view. Something in Thenvunin’s chest eases at the sight, at the confirmation that there is no smoke pluming upwards from the buildings. But the orchards…

He cannot fight back the horrified sound which escapes him.

Oh,  _no._

Blackened sticks. That is all that is left, for as far as he can see. Just blackened sticks, and soot, and smoldering heaps of ash, carrying off on every stray gust of wind. Shattered spirit remains linger like motes of sad, colourful dust amidst the ruin, which stretches off towards the springs, and on into some of the farmland. A few of the outbuildings, for farming equipment and storage, are burnt to a crisp, too. It all looks like a wound, Thenvunin thinks. A great, bloody wound, split open against Daran’s side.

Uthvir’s around curls around his waist.

“We will fix it,” they say, gently. Thenvunin’s eyes itch, and his vision blurs.

All the smoke in the air, no doubt.

But that cannot explain the potent air of misery, hanging about himself, and about the city overall, it seems. Uthvir nudges him into moving again. Even Mana’Din’s normally tight aura is awash with sorrow. She veers off, and Thenvunin watches as she gestures, and with a spell he does not know begins to gather up the shards of the broken little orchard spirits.

Are they all gone, he wonders?

He had never seen the likes of them before.

He tightens his hold on Uthvir, as his knees feel a little weak. They almost give out in relief, though, when he hears a familiar voice calling to them. Not Mana’Din’s, though similar.

Lavellan.

Their daughter rushes up the road, still dressed in her nice Arlathan clothes, but these are strained with soot and ash, too. Just like everything, it seems. There is no blood on her, though, no bruises or limp to her gate. She stops just short of them, looking them both over right before Thenvunin crushes her to his chest, and loses the last of his composure. With no more immediate dangers, he cannot help it. The need to remain calm, and coherent, is no longer pressing enough, and instead the flood of his shock and his fears and the unpleasantness of it all crashes over him like a wave.

And beneath it is a refrain, a helpless, furious set of words, whispering over and over.

_How dare Mythal._

_How **dare**  Mythal._

Thenvunin sobs against the top of Lavellan’s head, while she all but holds him up.

“Papa,” she says. “Deep breaths, deep breaths. There is no smoke here. Take deep breaths.”

He manages, and then pulls back enough to look her over again, just to be sure. Cupping her face and checking her eyes, her hands and arms, her clothing for any signs of rips or tears or burns. He babbles, he knows he does, until Uthvir settles a hand against his back and some of the wretched misery in him eases.

They are alright, he reminds himself. His family is alright, and he needs to get himself together. There are things to see to. His duties. They need to make certain no other attacks have happened in the territory, and they will need to decide where to send soldiers, and begin repairs, and bring back whatever salvaged things were taken in through the crossroads. He will need to coordinate efforts and put together plans, and make certain their enemies do not take advantage of this opening, that things are protected, he will need to find out who was injured and if anyone was injured badly, if anyone  _died,_  if his birds are alright and their neighbours are alright and who will need to find a new bed for the evening, where to get tools to replace the ones destroyed and what else the orchard workers and farmers and those who maintained the springs will need, if private baths will have to be opened to the public or some kind of roster will need to be made, although he supposes that is not really his purview, but…

Lavellan settles a hand on his cheek.

“Deep breaths,” she reminds him.

Deep breaths.

_How dare Mythal._

It is not over, he thinks. And that is the truly frightening part. Because this is not a finishing move.

It is an opening one.

 

~

 

Twenty-four hours after the orchards have burned in Daran, Mana’Din must leave for Arlathan again.

Word has come in, through messengers re-routed to one of the villages past the farmlands, that there have been attacks on a city in Dirthamen’s territories as well, and also one in Ghilan’nain’s. All attacks having been made by unmarked elves, according to the reports. Uthvir can see the shape of the plan much better now, and it is a cold one.

An attack within Arlathan. Assaults on the territories bordering Mana’Din’s. No doubt some proof will be found that the assailants were able to reach Mythal’s palace by way of some route connected to Mana’Din’s city estate. The verdict will be a breach of security. Ineptitude, on the part of a new leader, too free with her people’s leash. Mythal will have sufficient cause to implement new ‘security measures’ without seeming too draconian, now, and Elgar’nan will likely be roaring for the chance to have the territories swarmed with peacekeepers. Likely, they will demand the eradication of the unmarked village, if not full reparations for their ‘losses’. The means to declare open war again is even available, now.

Uthvir is not certain what Mana’Din will do. On her own, they do not know how much she  _could_  do. But she still holds cards which her grandmother has – so far as they can tell – no knowledge of. And as they bring more and more information to her, and see her coming to what seem like obvious conclusions, now, they find themselves waiting with baited breath. Wondering if they will have to run, after all. If they will ever be able to find a place that is safe enough for Thenvunin and Lavellan.

Mana’Din is a silent and still figure. Emotions leashed, but the tension is palpable, and Uthvir thinks they can taste the faintest  _crackle_  of anger.

It is not so unlike the kind which has clung to Thenvunin, these past few hours.

“Secure the borders,” Mana’Din finally decides. “Begin recalling any citizens of our territories who are abroad. When I return, we will likely have to close off several branches of the network, but I do not know which ones, yet. Mythal has called a council. I will have to attend it, to at least… to see what can be done, from there.”

“You do not think it will be much,” Uthvir guesses.

Mana’Din inclines her head.

They hesitate, and then fold their own hands behind their back.

“Do not take Lavellan with you,” they request.

Again, Mana’Din inclines her head; as if that is not a bold or presumptuous request.

“I will not,” she agrees. “I will take a small party, only. If we do not return…”

“There would be chaos,” Uthvir points out. Pure, utter chaos, and Fear provides many helpful summaries of the ways in which it would manifest. The schisms that already exist between the differing factions of the territories would break. There is too little loyalty to the empire for most of the populace to simply wait politely for their next overlord, and too much fear of returning to past abuses as well. But there are those who would wish to pledge loyalty to another leader, if only to hold onto to semblance of peace. Others would try and hand the territory over to the Nameless. And those who, like Uthvir, might seek paths through other worlds. The lands would become scarred again, the orchards only the first victim among many.

And Mana’Din would likely be killed.

None of that is an outcome they care for.

The lady herself lets out a breath.

“I had best return, then,” she determines.

Uthvir nods in agreement, and at that rather vague dismissal, turns, and leaves her to it. They will have to make their way to several outposts, to activate the necessary measures, and to make certain that the most crucial words reach the most vital ears. Much of what can be done will, and must, be delegated, if they hope to secure the territories. But Uthvir will be travelling, it seems.

They are loathe to leave Daran in its current state. To leave Thenvunin and Lavellan.

Their loathing makes them, perhaps, more easily persuaded than usual. Which is how they end up with a mission party that includes Thenvunin, along with several of their more trustworthy agents. The  _most_  trustworthy are with Lavellan, in a second party that is bound again for the Hidden Estate, to make certain the proper measures are taken  _there,_  as well. It is their best route for evacuating, should all else fail, after all. But they will need a world as a destination, with as much preparation as can be given it, and those already living at the estate will have to make ready in case it should be besieged.

Mana’Din, Uthvir thinks, is on the verge of declaring war with her kin.

And every measure they have ever taken for that possibility still feels insufficient to the task. To the realities of what war against the evanuris is like. They find themselves riding next to Thenvunin, through the open roads and the crossroads, not only to keep close to him, but also to ask him more and more of the particulars of his battlefield experiences. Things he has already told them, that remind them that he did thousands of years of living before they came along. Things that are good to hear again, however, to organize their thoughts, and keep plans forming.

Plans stave off the worst of Fear’s spirals towards nihilism.

It also helps that Thenvunin’s travel clothes are… very flattering. Leather, and fitted, and beautifully adorned. Perhaps a little  _too_  fine for actual espionage, but that they are travelling and even where they are going is not precisely a secret, so it is of little matter. Uthvir listens to him recount war stories, quietly, and feels Fear stretch itself outwards, as the roads change around them.

They reach their first two stops before nightfall. Thenvunin remains close beside them, even as they deliver orders and instructions, but then. He is not a fool. If he has not already guessed at their purpose, Uthvir would be surprised.

By evening, they have reached one of the outposts at the borders of the territory. Several of their agents are set to convene with them there, and by the time that is done it is too dark to travel. They make camp there, as Uthvir ignites the high sigils on the outpost tower. Sending rippling signal waves of magic, the find answers in the form of distant, gleaming lights.

Not too far off, on the other side of the border, they can see the distant sight of Ghilan’nain’s forces. Some chained beast among them, their own campfires shining in the midst of the trees and shadows. But if they mean to cross the border, they will find the prospect more challenging than anticipated, at the very least.

The outpost, once secured, is about as safe as Uthvir can make any place. Even with a possibly-hostile army less than a day’s march away. They will not move in the dark, Uthvir thinks, though they plan to stand watch themselves anyway. Thenvunin makes use of the network to coordinate several troop movements himself, arranging for Mana’Din’s armies to move towards the borders as well.

Uthvir leaves him to it, and takes up a post just outside of the main watchtower. Official watches by the outpost’s guards are still using it, and Uthvir would not wish to disrupt them. They settle onto the hill at its base, instead, near one of the outbuildings, where they can see down into the valley that Ghilan’nain’s forces have marched into. Clearly not expecting any kind of assault, then. Or else Ghilan’nain is a piss poor tactician.

They are honesty not certain on that front. For all that they know about her, they have never actually gone to war with her.

The moon is up, when Thenvunin comes to find them.

“You should rest,” they tell him.

He settles down beside them, calling up the scent of crushed grass, as the night air grows thick with its own scents. It is warm enough, at least, that Uthvir does not lament the lack of cloak to give him. The open air is still, almost as if it has grown heavy with the anticipations of the region.

The silver of Thenvunin’s outfit catches their eye.

Uthvir glances towards him, and quite unexpectedly, find themselves letting out a sigh. Because he is so beautiful. His clothing suits him, and his form is as wonderful as ever, but that is not even the whole of it. He is simply… Thenvunin. Beautiful Thenvunin, who would not look away, and let them rescue him. Who came after them in a burning forest, and nearly got himself killed. Nearly forced them to reveal far too much, to save him. Nearly  _died,_  and that thought strikes them so hollow, and makes every breath they watch him take that much more beautiful. Enthralling.

Oh, Thenvunin.

He looks at them, shifting a little.

“What are you sighing for?” he wonders. Concerned, it seems.

They let some of their sentiment loose. An army cannot move in an instant, and if they have sent scouts, the wards will notice them before Uthvir can. They curl an arm around Thenvunin’s waist, and wrap him up in the rush of their affection and longing and love. So potent, from having endured the thought of losing him. Either to the battle, or to the aftermath, if he should have seen what they really are, and turned away from them.

His breath catches.

“I am sighing over your great loveliness,” they tell him. Turning their head to nose at his ear, a little. “My heart.”

Thenvunin makes a soft sound, and leans in towards them in turn. Shifting, just a little, as they slip their hand around to his stomach. They are glad to not be wearing gauntlets. They want to touch him, they think. Want to feel his warm skin and thrumming pulse, the rise and fall of his breaths, the proof of his life.

“Uthvir,” he says. “We are out in the open.”

They smile, flush with more affection as they feel a tenuous note of arousal slip into his own countenance.

“Are we?” they ask. They little outbuilding is not hiding any spies, not tonight, at least. And they are angled away from the camp. Not so far that Uthvir would dare anything  _too_  bold, but… they can spare some attention for this, they think. For Thenvunin. They do so love to touch him, and please him, and kiss him. To unravel him, even if they cannot full have him.

Thenvunin turns towards them, and sighs as they take the chance to kiss his lips.

“You are being mischievous,” he accuses.

Uthvir grins, and returns their lips to his ear. Letting the mood grow a little lighter, because really, it was not so long ago that Thenvunin was sobbing into their hair. Perhaps it is best not to overwhelm him too much.

“I am,” they agree, instead. “Sit between my legs, and let me touch you? There is less chance of being seen if I am at your back.”

Thenvunin makes another sound, and then huffs.

It takes a minute. A minute more of Uthvir nibbling at his ear, and running their hand carefully down towards his thigh, and tugging just a little at his sash, before he finally gives in and shifts in front of them.  _Much_  better, they think. They do not need to worry about skewering him on their pauldrons this way, and it is easier for them to get both hands on him, as he leans against their breastplate. They have to move some of his hair out of their face, but that is easily dealt with. And then they have cleared a path to his neck, which readily invites more kisses, and nips. Offering soft skin for them to trail the tips of their teeth over, as they begin to unfasten his leather coat. They push the open sides away, so they can undo the ties on his tunic as well.

They hear him swallow, and one of his hands settles between his own legs. Not quite touching himself, but the gesture is near enough that they reach over and curl the fingers of their free hand in with his own.

“My Thenvunin,” they whisper, trailing their touch down the exposed skin of his chest.

He shivers.

“I cannot lose you,” he says, hoarse as if he has already spent himself. The emotions in him whirl outwards. Love and fear.  _I almost lost you._

They remember the Fury demon. Remember his fear of dying, his fear of  _them_  dying, and how badly skewed the moment was. The tug on their heart pulls hard, dragging them to an emotion that they do not know how to name, for all of its intensity. A devotion that they have felt for years, but never quite so viscerally as to almost change it into something else.

They press their palm flat to Thenvunin’s stomach, and press their teeth to the side of his neck.

“I cannot lose you either,” they admit. “I love you too much.”

Too much, far too much, but there is no going back on it.

They untangle the fingers of their right hand from his, leaving their left to trail across his exposed chest. They kiss the bite mark that they have put on him, as they search for the opening to his trousers. Pushing aside his fly, and then working the ties loose. Pausing every now and then to press against the growing bulge at the front of his pants, until he is squirming against them.

A gasp slips past his lips, as they finally get their hand into his pants. Their fingers brushing soft, flushed skin, before they manage to pull him free of his confines, and into their grasp.

He covers his mouth, and they make no move to stop him. They should probably be quiet, for the most part, though Uthvir finds they do not care too much if someone overhears. But Thenvunin might. So they content themselves with kissing his fingers, when they stray from his lips, and with slowly stroking their hand over him. Letting their nails go soft as they brush a thumb over the head of his erection, and smear the small beads of fluid already gathering there back down the length of his shaft.

Their left hand, they begin to trail back up across the planes of his chest. Toying with his nipples until they pebble beneath their fingertips. They lick his bite mark, but do not draw any spellwork over him. Simple, they think, is good enough for tonight. There have already been too many complexities. Let him simply breathe, let him have good and adoring touches. They can be the strong, sharp thing at his back. The shadow that will hide from the world.

They stroke him a little more firmly, and a gasp escapes his guard.

“ _Mine,”_  they purr, approvingly.

“Uthvir,” he sighs, and bites his lip. They slow their touch, teasing, gentle, caressing more firmly with the hand at his chest until he wriggles his way backwards, and presses his backside as flush to their crotch as he can.

“Take me,” he asks.

Oh, they wish they could.

“I have you,” they tell him, instead. Holding him more firmly, again, and stroking him with more intent; until his breaths are ragged pants, and his hands are clenched fists in the grass beside them. He is a heavy weight against them, but so wonderful as he lets out one last, soft gasp, and spills over their fist. Shuddering a little as their emotions sweep over him, so fierce that they heat the air.

“Thenvunin,” they say, quietly, into the curve of his neck.

He turns his head towards them. Slumped and sated, and slightly annoyed, as he presses a sloppy kiss to the side of their mouth.

“Uthvir,” he sighs back.


	18. Chapter 18

Uthvir lets out a soft sigh as Thenvunin finally finishes working another knot of tension from their shoulders. 

They are going positively  _boneless,_  their chambers quiet and peaceful all around them, and the warmth of Thenvunin’s fingers sinking through the oil and their skin and settling pleasantly into their middle. The usual itch of discomfort they feel, at so much attention being paid to their back, is distant. Still somewhat there, but quiet enough that they can ignore it.

They are given a moment of pause, however, when Thenvunin shifts positions, and essentially moves to straddle their backside.

He is wearing little else apart from the loose shirt that Uthvir neglected to divest him of, before their interactions took a turn towards the more…  _softly_  intimate, and Thenvunin had suggested the massage. They can feel him pressing against their buttocks and the skin of their lower back, and it catches them uncommonly off-guard. In an instant they are aware, keenly, of their position. Of the hands at their back, and the aroused flesh at their rear, and the solid weight pinning them to the soft matts atop the floor.

And then Thenvunin’s hands shift to their shoulder.

“You always get such a knot here,” he murmurs, pressing his thumb to muscle that runs up towards their neck. “I can never get it at the right angle…”

His voice is soft and warm, almost distractedly annoyed but the apparent persistence of the knot. It untangles something cold and panicked at the base of Uthvir’s spine, as surely as his warm hands kneaded away the muscular tensions there earlier.

They suck in a deep breath, and let it out again.

Then they shift their hips, just a little, and hear Thenvunin suck in a breath of his own.

“Are you saying I am  _knotty?”_  they ask, turning back just a little to look at him.

Thenvunin makes a pained sound. Then he leans forward, and presses a rather pointed kiss to the back of their head.

 _“Behave,”_  he insists.

A soft smile, unbidden, tugs at the corners of their mouth.

 _It is not at all the same,_  they think. Thenvunin shifts himself pointedly so that less of his arousal is resting on them, and seems determined to ignore it, even, as he starts kneading their shoulder with obvious intent. Murmuring about them being  _incorrigible_  and this being  _non-sexual intimacy_  and nevermind the evidence elsewhere that’s a  _biological response to stimulus_ and in no way indicative of any change in plans on Thenvunin’s part.

Unless they’re interested in doing something later.

 _Not the same,_  Fear agrees.

They recover from the momentary unpleasantness, with an ease that almost shocks them. Lost in the wash of Thenvunin’s affection, and their trust in his intentions. His fingers press against their corded muscles in a way that sends a rush of pleasure right through them, mingling with the atmosphere and the sheer  _relief_  that is turning their bones to jelly again.

They groan.

Low, involuntary, and surprisingly wanton.

Thenvunin shifts, awkwardly, and sucks in another sharp breath. But before they can turn to check on him, he presses a second kiss to them.

“Really,” he says. “I am not  _that_  good at this.”

They chuckle.

“You are marvelous,” they insist.

~

“You are  _marvelous,”_  Uthvir purrs, digging their nails just a little bit into his hips, as they thrust the rest of the way inside his slickened entrance. Their magic is thick in the air around them, teasing the bite marks on Thenvunin’s back; drawing patterns of pleasure across his skin, as another ragged cry escapes him. The feel of them pushing into him is nearly the last straw for this round, as they press against him from the inside, and brush that spot which makes his cock jump on their inward stroke.

He clutches the bed post, but they give him a moment, then. The red fabric around his wrists, claimed from one of their belt sashes, is vibrant compared to the pale material of his ruined day clothes. He feels like he’s being lit on fire and devoured all at once, and the pause is almost as excruciating as it is welcome.

When his breathing settles just a bit more, he feels them shift their hold on him. Pressing deeper still inside of him, as they move a hand up his side, and over towards the exposed skin of his stomach.  They tease their nails over the sensitive skin their; just lightly, now. Not enough to hurt. Then they reach around with their other hand, and close their grip over his flushed cock.

“Did you think I was finished with you, when I had you by the door?” they ask, holding him firmly, but without stroking him yet. He would not have thought it possible for him to blush any more than he has, but a fresh rush of colour seems to find his cheeks anyway, as he recollects them pouncing on him before.  _And where do you think you are going, hm? Is it not your day off?_

He had only meant to check on a few things. They certainly had not seemed to object while he was getting dressed; but he can see now, they let him do that just so they could tear the clothes right off of him.

He shudders, recollecting the intent, hungry look in their eyes. And for a moment he wishes he was facing them, so as to see if it is still there.

It is a thought he never would have let himself entertain before, he thinks. To want to look into the eyes of the person ravishing him senseless. To want to reach out and touch them in return. To not feel the familiar, curdling burn of shame in his gut, at the fierce arousal rolling off of him in waves.

But it is Uthvir. And Uthvir’s want for Thenvunin is not ugly; and Thenvunin’s desire for them cannot be, either.

He swallows in a deep breath, and then lets out a soft groan as they begin to stroke him, and press a feather-light kiss to the back of his shoulder.

 _“Uthvir,”_  he pants.

They growl, hot and possessive in turn, and that is the most articulate he manages to be for the next hour, at least.

 

~

 

The day had started out relaxing enough.

New year celebrations in the empire are always a loud and colourful affair, and this year had been no different. Uthvir had accompanied Mana’Din to Arlathan, to see to security precautions, for the first week of festivities. Then they had gone back to Daran, to attend to matters in the local festivals, and to spend some time celebrating with their family.

A blessedly uneventful and overall successful New Year, on most fronts. Though they are generally happy to see the end of festivities. It makes security that much more challenging, and any events, but particularly major celebrations, tend to inspire attacks and sabotage. There had been a few incidents; none had gotten through their grid, however.

And the day after it all, Uthvir can finally take a rest day. To recover, and relax, and leave some of the clean-up to other hands. They are, of course, still available in case of emergencies or urgent issues. The festival is not long done, and the window of opportunity it afford people has not entirely closed. Daran is still more densely populated than usual, and there are more travellers on the road, but Uthvir had needed to sleep quite badly by the end of it. And in the morning after, they find themselves somewhat lethargic and disinclined to jump right back into the thick of things.

Thenvunin is in the bed with them. Pressing kisses to their lips, which are quite nice, and carding his fingers through their hair. Their hands roam beneath the blankets, and across his skin; and then they drift off for a moment, and wake up again to find themselves alone in the bed, with the sounds of water from the bathroom running.

They sigh, and wake up.

Their skull is throbbing, and their reaction times are not what they should be. They take a few minutes to stretch, before heading into the bathroom themselves. Leaving Thenvunin to his shower, as they splash some water onto their face, and go through some early morning rituals. A rest day is for resting, but they should probably go and get some breakfast, at least. They pull on some clothes, and straighten out their hair, and then head for the mess hall.

One of their apprentices stops them as they are in the midst of gathering up a plate of food.

“Spymaster!” she greets. “Were you planning on going to the archives today?”

Uthvir blinks, a little surprised by the question. It seems less urgent than a typical issue. But, then, sometimes their apprentices  _do_  attempt to be friendly towards them.

In their own ways.

“I was not,” they declare. “It is my rest day. I intend to use it resting.”

“Ah. Well, um… it is just, there are some new reports from the Unmarked Village, and I thought you might want to compare the incidents listings for the year to the ones we have archived for the previous years. You know. In care there are any glaring inconsistencies, or signs of impending trouble…”

They raise an eyebrow.

“Naturally, I intend to,” they say. “Tomorrow. Are you requesting to be involved in the review?”

The apprentice hesitates.

“I… yes…?” she ventures.

“To what end?” they wonder.

“…Professional curiosity?” she says.

“Are you asking me or are you telling me?” they counter, narrowing their gaze a little. The apprentice clears her throat. This one has always been something of an academic, though. And socially awkward besides.

“Telling,” she decides.

“Alright,” Uthvir concludes. “Meet me at the archives tomorrow at first light.”

She looks less enthused than they might have expected.

“Are you certain you do not want to do it sometime today?” she counters. “We could go right now, in fact!”

“Shockingly enough, I am, in fact, having breakfast right now,” they say, firmly. “As I said, it is my rest day, apprentice. If you are that eager to do a review of the archives, we have less sensitive material in the form of a grain production report from the western parts of the territories. Feel free to compare it to past years’ harvests, I am certain the regional managers, merchants, and distributors will appreciate the assistance with their records.”

The apprentice swallows.

“Um… alright…” she says.

Something is apparently going on. But Uthvir decides, after a moment, that if one of their apprentices is having some kind of personal issue, it can probably still wait a day. They will inform Elanna that one of the apprentices under her jurisdiction is behaving oddly. But that should not take more than a moment, really, and can also wait until after breakfast.

When they get back to their chambers, they leave the platter of foodstuffs on the little dining table, and go in search of Thenvunin. He does not take long to find; sporting a towel as he mutters his way through the contents of a box in his closet.

“Looking for something?” Uthvir wonders.

They do not recognize that box.

Thenvunin jumps, nearly drops his towel, and then whirs around to face them.

“What do you think you are doing?!” he demands.

Uthvir is taken aback for about half of a second. It has been a long time since them walking in on Thenvunin partially dressed provoked  _that_  kind of a response. But then they cotton on. The old game – sometimes revived – of their outraged beloved. They put on a smirk and lean against the doorframe, and are gratified that this pose can still make his cheeks pink a little.

“Whatever do you mean?” they ask. “I only walked into the room. Why? Is there something here I was not supposed to see?”

They look him over, and Thenvunin conspicuously moves in front of the box.

Oh, it is the  _box._

They raise their eyebrows at him, and then push away from the wall, and begin to head towards him.

“What do you have there?” they wonder.

“Nothing!” Thenvunin insists, straightening up and nearly dropping his towel again in the process. “You just – you – no, stay back! This is not – have you  _never_  heard of knocking? Really! Here I am simply attempting to get dressed in my own room and you come waltzing in without so much as a tap on the door, and now you are interrogating me, and – and  _really,_ Uthvir!”

They move closer, only to find themselves batted back, as Thenvunin takes a step forwards himself and then soundly shuts the closet door with his free hand. An act which leaves him pressed almost to their chest. He swallows, and Uthvir grins, and trails a fingertip over his chest. His skin is still quite warm from his shower.

“What was in that box?” they ask.

Thenvunin huffs.

“We have not even had breakfast!” he protests.

Which, does remind them.

“I brought some,” they tell him, shifting their grip on him and resting a hand against his forearm. “Though, it will keep a little while, at least. And there are other things I could eat…”

Thenvunin swallows, and shifts in a certain way, and makes just the tiniest sound of not-quite-complaint…

…And then the chime for the front door goes off.

Uthvir takes a second to close their eyes, and count backwards from five. Of all the terrible timing.

“You should get that,” Thenvunin insists. “It may be important.”

“I know, I know,” they agree, with a sigh. They run a hand across his hip before they go, however, offering him a wink before they head off towards the entryway again. “Hold that thought,” they request, over their shoulder.

They open the door to find one of their agents – Inava – standing behind it.

“Spymaster,” she greets. “Sorry to bother you, I know it is your rest day, but you asked to be informed if anything urgent came up. The agents have come back from the Green Wyvern mission, and the group leader has a report ready.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow. Wyvern missions are largely scouting efforts into Ghilan’nain’s territories. Dangerous, but not particularly sensitive, unless they have been compromised. Sevassa, the team leader for the Green agents, would likely approach them herself if that were the case. Unless something particularly dire happened, or was uncovered, they would not count taking the report as an ‘urgent’ matter which could not wait a day.

“Was someone injured?” they ask.

“I do not know,” Inava admits. “I have not read the report myself, that would be a breach of protocol, of course.”

Uthvir waits.

When no further information seems forthcoming, they attempt a code.

“Was the weather especially poor?”

Inava shakes her head, though.

“Clear skies, from most accounts.”

So that means that they were not followed, tracked, or compromised by a spirit.

“Alright. I will take Sevassa’s report this afternoon,” they decide. “Oh, and, since you are here, agent, you may save me a trip back to my office and inform Elanna that Apprentice Therel seems to be going through some sort of personal issue. Have her investigate, and potentially reassign the apprentice.”

Inava closes her eyes, briefly.

“Of course, Spymaster,” she agrees.

Uthvir finds themselves suspicious of the odd moods which seem to be going around. But then, it  _is_  just after New Year celebrations, and it is entirely possible that some agents neglected their healing spells and are suffering some hang-overs for their troubles.

They will have to do a review on procedures for revelry, if that is the case.

They close the door on Inava, however, and head back in to pick up where they left off with Thenvunin. Or, that is their intention, anyway. But before they can get back into the bedroom, he emerges in one of his nicer robes, sash closed and towel quite obviously replaced.

“Was that one of your agents?” he asks. “Did something come up?”

He looks tense. Uthvir wonders if he got embarrassed again; a peril of being interrupted. They attempt to project some calm and reassurance, reaching for one of his hands.

“Nothing important,” they assure him. “One of the teams is back, but they can report in later. Shall we have breakfast?” they suggest. Though they find themselves increasingly aroused. They had not mean to spend the morning teasing themselves, though inadvertently, that seems to be the case. Thenvunin nods, though, and still looks somewhat unsteady about things. They press a kiss to his wrist, which eases some of the tension in his shoulders, and walk with him over to the little table.

Breakfast goes well, at least. There is one more interruption – another apprentice knocks on the door, and asks Uthvir if they could possibly give him a tour of the palace’s detainment facilities, since he is on assignment there for the next year. Uthvir tells him to ask Darathen, and then goes back to eating breakfast, making certain to pepper Thenvunin with some soft kisses and sly comments, quite certain that they will retreat to the bedroom to make good on their offers, if the way he is blushing and shifting around and blustering through things is any indication.

And then the door charm goes off  _again._

“What now?” they wonder, irritated. It would be one thing if it was a series of actual calamities or urgent matters occurring all at once. But instead it simply seems as if their agents have lost their usual sense of proportion.

They open the door to find Inava standing behind it again.

“Lasmami stabbed Gratitude,” she tells them.

Uthvir actually has to take a moment to process that.

Lasmami. The little apprentice. Stabbed  _Gratitude,_  the agent so perpetually friendly, people often forget that they work for Uthvir (which is always of benefit).

“Why?” they ask, genuinely perplexed for a moment.

“They were fighting,” Invava declares. “It was inter-agent violence. I am sorry to interrupt again but-“

“No,” Uthvir allows. “I need to see to this.” They give Thenvunin their apologies, and follow Inava back to their offices, where Lasmami and Gratitude are both waiting. Gratitude has been healed, at least, the skin on their shoulder still looks fresher than usual. Lasmami starts off with immediate apologies, and Uthvir is almost prepared to believe this was some kind of accident, except that all three of their people insist that it was actually a moment of ‘incandescent rage’.

They decide to put everyone on the look out for potentially corrupting Rage Spirits, make a disciplinary note for Lasmami’s records, and, since the incident is no longer at risk of boiling point, call it a day. But somehow, it still ends up taking them more than an hour to get back to their chambers.

By the time they arrive they are giving serious thought to pinning Thenvunin to the nearest wall and seeing how well he takes it. Probably  _very_  well, but it does not pay to presume until they have confirmation. They walk inside and…

Pause.

The lighting has changed.

Several candles have been lit. They can smell them, and then see the light flickering, as they close the front entrance behind themselves. Upon the sound of the door closing, they detect some of Thenvunin’s magic. Did he spell the door? But then they hear the sounds of fabric and rustling, as they make their way down the hall.

They reach the bedroom, and find Thenvunin posing on the bed. Surrounded by a bevy of softly lit candles, with the ambient lighting dimmed, and the curtains drawn. He is wearing a shimmery, sparkling outfit that hangs beautifully from his frame, with a plunging neckline and slits so high up along the sides, it is practically a loin cloth.

Uthvir takes it in.

Was  _that_  what was in the box?

They almost ask him – they have never seen this outfit before; but it is mouth-watering – but then they catch themselves. Hardly the most romantic of responses. They put a certain degree of prowl into their step, as they head into the room. Thenvunin does not quite look at them, staring at the bedspread as he ‘reclines’ in a position that is most certainly not for comfort.

They cannot resist, at that.

“Am I interrupting something?” they ask. “Were planning to commission some erotic art, beloved? Should I expect a sculptor?”

Thenvunin looks at them, and for a moment seems as if he is about to take them to task for that – or possibly declare it to be true, and object to them interrupting him and perceiving something  _erotic_  from his  _obviously perfectly innocent_  habit of posing on a candlelit bed in lingerie.

But then he  _looks_  at them.

“No,” he says. “This is for you.”

Uthvir’s breath stops, for a moment.

They move in closer. Taking the time to appreciate the pose, and all the work Thenvunin clearly put into modeling his new garment, before they nudge him into sitting up a little more comfortably instead. They lean against the bed, as they curl a hand around his jaw, and press a kiss to his lips. Softer and slower than the initial pressed-against-the-wall fervency which they had planned on.

“For me?” they breathe.

Thenvunin swallows, and then nods.

“Just for you,” he says. “My heart. I love you, and – well, I thought we could do whatever you wanted to, today. Whatever you would like me to do. I will do it, for you.”

They frown a little.

But before they can voice their concern, Thenvunin gets his own arms around them, and pulls them a little closer. He looks very determined. They are always a little bit surprised at how attractive that can be.

“I know you would not ask me for something I did not want to give,” he says. “I am not martyring myself. What do you want to do? You can tell me. Even if it burns my ears off.” He swallows, and then leans in a bit closer, and whispers. “Perhaps especially if it does.”

Uthvir’s mind actually blanks out for half a second.

They let out a hum, as they get a grip on themselves. Arousal soaring, as Thenvunin kisses the corner of their jaw, and leans into their touch.

“What has brought this on?” they wonder, though.

“I love you,” Thenvunin says, again, and they clench inside, as the conflicting rush of affection and longing and guilt and fervent desire nearly bowls them over. They press him back onto the bed. Following him down so that they can kiss him, hungrily, and slide their hands over the silky-soft material he his wearing, making an odd sound as the air floods with Thenvunin’s desire, and other sentiments less concisely described, but potent enough to make Uthvir’s breath stutter again.

“I love you, too, my heart,” they tell him, when they can speak again.

They have no idea what has brought this on.

But it has probably saved the day.

 

~

 

The trinket is one which Uthvir has spent quite a lot of time on.

It is a delicate thing, meant to go in a delicate place, and they have been very,  _very_  careful to get it just right. Metalwork is not usually their specialty, but for this item, they had made an exception. And a rare day trip to Arlathan, in order to pick up the necessary materials.

Technically, the material they have used to make the majority of the toy’s curling pieces is a kind of glass, rather than a typical metal. But it must be worked like metal. It comes from a crafter’s guild in Elgar’nan’s territories, an auspicious group who pioneered the use of materials like this for things such as channeling magical energies, in clothing, or construction work, and most especially in art pieces located within the Crossroads. The glass can retain copious amounts of magic without showing signs of wear, or leaking excess energy into the atmosphere around it, or reacting to other ambient magical energies.

That also makes it perfect for enchanting sex toys. Particularly since the material is smooth, and not prone to causing skin irritations.

Uthvir had taken a cast of Thenvunin’s, ahem,  _relevant_  part some months ago. Ostensibly for the purposes of building an altogether different kind of toy – which they had done, in fact. Thenvunin’s face had been burning the entire time, and when they had shown him the end results, they had teased him with the notion that they meant to use the phallus to alleviate their  _loneliness_  in times when the two of them were apart.

Not entirely truthful of them. Uthvir rarely felt like having that kind of sex while they were in the midst of an expedition of any kind, but it had been delightful to see him go red all the way up to the tips of his ears. Even more delightful when he had insisted that reciprocation was only fair, and that Uthvir ought to leave him a copy of  _their_  cock, too. Before his embarrassment had gotten the best of him, and he had rushed out to go garden for an hour instead.

Uthvir had acquiesced to his request, though. But this toy – this toy is a surprise, and one they are finally satisfied with, they think.

They settle it onto the model phallus again anyway, testing the fit for what is probably the hundredth time. No rough edges, no seams that might pinch, nothing that would press too tightly – or too loosely, for that matter – and all the emergency releases are working perfectly. They cast their final testing spell on it, and find that the material has not heated, or distorted in size or shape at all, or developed any discolouration’s that would imply a fault somewhere.

That is about as good as it is going to get, they suppose.

With a nod to themselves, they pull it off, and then set it into the bowl of blood they acquired for the purposed of treating it. They add a little of their own blood, and starting casting the enchantments. Mostly funneling energy into the thing, so that it will echo the right sensations, when needed. If all goes well, it should be rechargeable, and potentially even work from a significant distance. They turn the little toy over and over into the blood, making certain the energy spilling into it is evenly distributed. By the time they are satisfied, they fingers are stained with it, and the toy  _looks_  like a gorey mess. But a quick wash and sanitization, one last spell to settle it all in, and it is gleaming silvery and bright as any high class adornment again.

Uthvir washes it once more, for good measure. They wash their hands, too, and dispose of the used blood, before finally sitting back in satisfaction.

There.

Now the only question is, how shall they give it to him?

~

Thenvunin wakes up alone on the morning of his next rest day.

He stretches out in bed, and frowns a little, patting at the side to confirm that Uthvir has already gotten up. Not a terribly uncommon turn of events, but usually on rest days, Uthvir is a little more prone to lingering.

But then again, they had gone to bed with him the evening before, and spent most of the night snug up beside him. Thenvunin lets out a muzzy sound of acknowledgement, mostly to himself, that they probably woke up at some unreasonable hour and just got bored with lying around. Then he stretches again, and rolls over, and lingers for several long moments in the warmth of the blankets. Just until the pressing needs of his bladder become more than he can ignore.

He gets up, then, and goes to relieve himself. The shower looks particularly inviting this morning, so he takes a long one, and hums to himself as he washes his hair. The water heating charms are working perfectly today, for a nice treat. Some of the city renovations last month upset a few of the enchantments in place, and temperature control on the piping had been among them. But it looks as though they have finally resolved that issue – he will have to find out who solved the problem and make sure they get extra commendations.

Tomorrow, anyway. Thenvunin makes a mental note of it as he finishes rinsing off, and then drying off, and then wraps himself up in his favourite morning robe. Leaving his hair loose as he ventures out into the main quarters of their living chambers.

He frowns a little when he sees no sign of Uthvir about the rooms. It is their rest day too, but if there was something urgent that required their attention, then they might have gone to see to it. Thenvunin hopes it was nothing to dire…

Well.

They might have simply gone to get breakfast, too. He lets out a sigh, and resolves to investigate if they are not back within the hour. Then he heads into the garden to check on his birds, and make certain the feeders are all stocked, and that Screecher has not tried to rip up any more of the new flowering vines he put in. To his delight, though, his favourite bird has been behaving, and the plants have all been left to grow, rather than being torn up to make some addition to the massive nest that is eating up a quarter of the garden’s space.

Thenvunin checks on his fruit trees, while he is at everything. The morning is mild, but in a way that promises to get quite hot by the afternoon. He makes sure all the bathing and cooling stations for the birds are in working order, too, before he finally heads back inside.

When he gets in, he smiles. Breakfast is laid out on the little dining table. He turns, mostly expecting to see Uthvir standing in some corner of the room – perhaps looking at the bookshelves – but a quick inspection does not reveal them. And a closer look at the breakfast offerings reveals only a service for one, consisting of the foods which Thenvunin likes. Sweet rice and eggs and fresh fruit, and gentle cooked fish.

“Uthvir?” he calls.

A quick check down the hall reveals that he is alone again, however. His brows furrow, worry starting to gnaw at him – until he notices the parcel on his seat, and the small, tented piece of paper atop it. Picking it up reveals it to be a note, done in Uthvir’s scrip.

_Beloved Prince,_

_I fear something has come up this morning, and I will not be able to join you until later. Please enjoy your breakfast. In the parcel below, you will find a special gift for you. When you put it on, the games will begin. But if it is not to your liking, simply leave it aside, and I will bring you something else when I see you again._

_Yours,_

_Uthlin_

At once, Thenvunin feels his face heat.

“Oh,  _no,_ ” he murmurs. But somehow his tone comes out more delighted than exasperated. He shall blame that on the sudden fluttering of his heartbeats, as he takes in the implications of the note. The mention of  _games_ , and the signing of  _Uthlin_  rather than their proper name. He clucks his tongue, and sighs, and dithers for just a moment. He should probably have breakfast. Silly things ought to wait until after proper sustenance has been seen to.

…He holds that thought for barely half a minute, before curiousity gets the better of him, and he moves the parcel to his lap, settles into his chair, and starts opening it. It is not terribly large, considering he is ostensibly meant to wear it. Not a robe or a gown, then. His face heats further at the possibilities, as he pulls away the outer paper, and finds a narrow box with an elegant image of a swan and a hawk etched into the lid. He traces his fingers over it for a moment. Recognizing Uthvir’s clumsy drawing style. It is not so elegant as most of the rest of their craftsmanship. Uthvir is far better at drawing runes than animals, but Thenvunin does not think he would prefer a professionally made etching.

And then he opens the box.

It takes him a minute to realize what he is looking at. And once he does, he feels all his blood rush south. The box lid clatters as he hastily puts it back on, and presses both hands to the top of it.

Oh,  _no, no, no._

 _“Uthvir,”_  he scolds, even though they are not around to hear it. It is  _first thing in the morning,_ and oh, they  _would_  just leave something like this out with his breakfast, as if it were a – a bouquet of flowers, or a piece of jewellery, or some other, far more innocent sort of gift.

Thenvunin shifts in his seat. His breakfast is getting cold, now, and he really does suppose he should eat it. By the looks of things, he is going to need his energy.

…And  _that_  thought manages to make his heart pound again, and certain parts of himself react in ways that make the press of the box in his lap much less comfortable. He shifts again, and then tells himself sternly to put the box back under his seat. Uthvir had said the ‘games’ would begin once he… once he put it on. Well, they will keep to their promise, of course. So the responsible thing would obviously be to put the box under his seat, finish his breakfast, see to his daily responsibilities – a rest day doesn’t mean he has  _none,_  after all, and he was going to go and check on the archives and visit some of the other advisors – and only put the  _gift_  on when it is appropriately dark out, and much more respectable for lovers to engage in illicit activity.

Thenvunin nods to himself.

…But perhaps he should just, take a peek again. To make certain it really is what he thinks it is.

Swallowing down a rush of nervous excitement, that prickles the air around him a little bit, he opens the lid of the box, and looks inside again.

And then swiftly closes it again.

Oh, yes. That is… that is definitely _…_

That is definitely a very elaborate, very elegant, full-length cock ring.

Quickly, Thenvunin puts the box under his chair, and settles his hands onto the breakfast table instead.

Alright.

Well.

That certainly settles it.

He will absolutely not touch that box again until after the evening meal.

He manages to make it through half a glass of juice, several bites of fish and rice, and a few pieces of fruit before whirling out of his seat, scooping the box up off of the floor, and absconding back to his bedchamber.

It  _is_  his rest day, after all, and sometimes it is important to keep in mind the… the  _importance_ of, of rest. And… seeing to bodily needs! And other such things, and anyway, it is his own business what he does with the day, that is the whole  _point_  of it. If people were to spend too many of their rest days on being productive, why, then, sooner or later rest days would no longer be considered restful at all, and then everyone would run themselves ragged and start to break under the strain of their duties and society would probably collapse.

Really, it would be irresponsible of him  _not_  to put Uthvir’s gift on straight away, when all the facts are considered.

Thenvunin is not entirely certain what Uthvir has planned. But once he gets into his room, he takes off his favourite robe, and carefully hangs it back in his closet. No sense seeing it ruined. He contemplates the drawer with some of his unmentionables in it, but cannot quite bring himself to put any on. And so he leaves the closet in the nude, carrying his gift box, trying not to look at the increasingly pertinent evidence of his anticipation.

He loves Uthvir, he reminds himself. It is only natural to become… to be  _excited,_  at the prospect of seeing them. Particularly since he has not seen them  _all morning,_  and it is his  _rest day,_  and really, he is well within his rights to want to see them and touch them and – and, to appreciate their gifts, too.

His mouth is dry, as he opens the box again, and carefully lifts their present out of it.

He cannot help the flush of his cheeks at the blatantly phallic nature of the adornment. Technically it is only a few curling bands of warm-to-the-touch metal – or glass? – but the outline the piece makes, altogether, is  _distinctive._  Delicate, but undeniable. Thenvunin recollects the phalluses which Uthvir had made not too long ago, and squirms in place. Oh, those had been so  _embarrassing!_  And so… so…

…So  _Uthvir._

It takes him several moments to muster himself up enough to start trying to fit the, ah,  _new garment_  onto himself. At first he thinks he may have a slight issue, as it is probably meant to go on him when he is not standing at full attention; and then be filled out by him after he is properly aroused. But the material it is made from is soft and surprisingly flexible, and Thenvunin gets it on with only a few moments of brief, experimental discomfort. And those only because he is not entirely certain which band is meant to go where, until he is about halfway through the process.

Once it is on, it  _tingles._

And  _tightens._

Thenvunin gasps as he feels it. His hand reflexively moving to wrap around the device, worried for half a second that it is going to hurt. But of course, it does not. The tightening is slight, and the tingling is persistent, but the fit is perfect. He bites his lip, and runs his fingers experimentally over the bands, and his own flushed, sensitive skin. He has worn such things before, but this one feels different. More potently enchanted, perhaps?

Uthvir probably put a spell on it so that they would know as soon as he put it on.

The thought of them coming in and catching him with his hand on himself has Thenvunin moving his away, flustered. Uthvir would not mind in the least, he knows, but he still… he cannot quite resolve the  _embarrassment_  of the prospect. It is such a – a shameless thing, to touch oneself. And Thenvunin still has more shame than he would like.

He sets the box aside, and positions himself on the pillows. Clutching them rather than his own flesh, wondering how far Uthvir had wandered, and when they might come for him.

He is not  _at all_  expecting the first sensation.

A warm, soft feeling, like a few fingers’ caress, runs up the length of his erection.

Thenvunin gasps and jolts, more startled than anything. For half a second he thinks some stray spirit must have gotten into the room somehow without his noticing. But, there is nothing there. He can see clear down the length of his own body, and there is only open air above him.

The sensation comes again. A little stronger, as if the fingers have moved to curl around his length. The ornament on him vibrates a bit more tellingly, too, and realization hits him.

 _This_  is why it feels so strongly enchanted.

A breathy gasp escapes him upon the realization. A moment later, the third caress comes. And this time he could swear he feels, just faintly, the edges of sharp nails. Not pressing nearly hard enough to hurt. Just enough so that he knows they are there, as the warmth closes around him, and it feels almost  _exactly_  as if Uthvir has just taken him in hand.

He lies back, uncertain of what to do. His grip on the pillows tightens as it begins to feel as if he is being steadily stroked, and he closes his eyes. Fighting the urge the move his hips, for a moment; before he recollects that he is alone, and there is no one to see him. And then he gives in, and begins to move towards the feeling. By one token thrusting fruitlessly into the air, but with his eyes closed, it is almost impossible not to think that Uthvir is beside him. Touching him. Looking at him with that  _look_  in their eyes, so openly ravenous that it never fails to make Thenvunin feel weak at the knees.

His eyes fly open again when the feeling of a hand is replaced by something distinctly hotter and  _wetter_  instead.

A glance confirm that his length is still dry. But he can  _feel_  the heat of a tongue on him. It runs over him, and then impossible delicious heat envelopes the head of his cock. Softness like lips closing over it. A writhing sensation, like a tongue whirling against his tip, startles him again, and he jerks his hips upwards. But no matter how he moves, the feeling stays on the same parts of him. The warmth doesn’t progress any further down his length.

Thenvunin wonders what it would be like to put his own hand on himself. He lets out a strained breath, and looks around the room again. No one in sight. After a moment more of the impossible feeling, he ventures it. Letting his hand close around his length. The sensations add together, and he finds he can feel his thumb against his head even as a tongue seems to press across it. It is nearly overwhelming. He feels certain that it will do him in; but the bands around him only tingle more, and it does not.

The feeling of the lips around him move. Warm heat sealing all around him, as careful points press against the softer places beneath his length. He half expects to feel nails soften, to feel a touch ventured towards his entrance, but none comes. Just the feeling of a mouth around his cock, and fingers at his testicles, and then the electrifying sensation of being sucked at.

Again, his hips jerk. Thenvunin halts them, a rush of reflexive embarrassment flooding him, but of course, there is no throat for him to actually thrust so discourteously into. Just the  _feel_ of it, drawing ever more sensations from him, until he is panting and twisting and hovering at the edge of relief. He tries putting his hand around himself again, but while it feels good –  _so_ good,  _overwhelmingly_  good – it does not seem to get him anywhere. The feelings continue, tireless, even when he rolls onto his side, and even when he tries pressing a pillow against himself.

Time passes. He is honestly not certain how much. A feeling like a tongue, dragging  _slowly_ up and down him, begins driving him steadily mad, as the tip of his cock leaks and his length remains vividly flushed and desperate and  _denied._  And then finally, the sensations stop.

A sound escapes him, one part protest and one part relief, because it is still not the release he might  _want_  but it feels like something of a reprieve. He closes his hand around himself, seeking, wondering if he could get himself to come now, but the few clumsy strokes he manages do not send him over. He reaches for the bands, and considers taking the elaborate ring off – surely he could finish  _then_  – when it the sense of heat and wet returns. Constricting and all-encompassing in a way that the mouth had not quite managed to be, as it moves down his shaft, until he has been taken in completely.

Thenvunin curses and jerks his hips, drawing his hand away so that he can press a pillow to his face instead, and stiffly his cries in the cover. He twitches, and writhes, and ends up thrusting against the bedcovers, as a sense of friction begins to follow the enveloping warmth at a glacial pace. Still, somehow, not to enough to push him past the restraints around him.

Not enough… he needs, he needs…

With a curse Thenvunin lurches off of the bed, still feeling as if he is buried inside of Uthvir’s body, as he frantically pulls open the beside cabinet. He reaches for the phallus they made of themselves, and the new jar of unscented oil, too, and ends up lying on the floor in front of it, desperately fingering himself as his hips twitch and his cock leaks. He feels as if every last thought in his head is being rushed out of him, as his heart pounds and he sinks two oil-slicked fingers into himself, and tries to send himself over the edge from the inside out.

It makes him feel desperate, and lit like a hot iron, but it still will not  _strike._

He fumbles, then, to get the phallus inside of himself. To feel that pressure, to add it to the rest and  _hope_  it will answer his increasing desperation. But he has only barely started to push it inside when he feels the warmth around his cock tighten, and the wetness increase, and it is disorientingly  _vivid_  and alike to being inside of Uthvir that he reels back, and reaches out, as if he might somehow get a hand on them. His hips stutter and his hand grips the carpet, instead, and a frustrated, broken cry escapes him.

“Uthvir!”

The constriction on him eases, and a tingling rush spreads all through his skin. And finally,  _finally,_  he comes, in a blissful surge that has him crying out again. He spills across the floor, and reaches out and bangs his hand against the foot of the bed. And lies for a moment in dizzying, heated relief, as he gulps in great breaths and realizes that his hair is a mess, and the bedside table is still open, and the blankets on the bed are entirely askew.

He feels as if he is made of pudding, though. The light in the room has definitely shifted. His throat is dry and his limbs are shaky.

And he  _cannot believe_  he did not figure that out sooner.

His beloved is the most incorrigible being in any world out there. Thenvunin groans, when he can manage to, and presses a bleary hand to his forehand. He is still trembling, and the aftershocks are still firing through him. Long enough that it takes him a moment to realize that even though he has had some relief, he…

…He is  _still erect._

“Oh,  _help,”_  he groans, then. He probably should just take that thing off, but… but…

The sound of the door sends a shiver through him. He looks up, but his hair is in the way, as he feels the vibration of footfalls moving closer. But a rush of mingled embarrassment and relief – and it is, this time, mostly relief – eases him when he sees Uthvir looking down at him. And when he feels their hands on him, as they bend down and scoop him up, and help get him back onto the bed. Their gaze flitting across him, heated but also with that telltale furrow in their brow, that means they are checking him for damage.

Thenvunin feels impossible endeared, and also intensely annoyed.

“I cannot  _believe_  you,” he huffs.

They brush his hair away from his face. Still wearing their gauntlets, and a full suit of their armour, no less. Though it looks as though they have taken their breeches off. Their lips twitch.

“Did you fall off the bed?” they ask him.

“ _No,”_  Thenvunin denies, with another huff. Because he did  _not,_  he  _purposefully left_  the bed in search of – of things, and then he simply declined to get back onto it. Due to his state, which was entirely their fault. And also still is, if the way he is  _still tingling_  is anything to go by.

Uthvir’s lips twitch again. Damn them.

“Should we stop?” they ask.

And oh, they really, truly should, Thenvunin thinks. He has no idea what time it is, and he is wholly out of sorts, and technically has just finished, and it really would be ridiculous of him to say anything other than ‘yes, of course’. Uthvir would help him clean up, he knows, and they could always pick things up again later, when it might be more appropriate.

The palm of their gauntlet is cool against his cheek, though. And there is a certain spark in their eyes, even if they have kept it out of the air around themselves.

Thenvunin does not think he can be expected to make reasonable choices when most of his blood is still rushing south – and with increasingly renewed feelings of arousal, he might add. It is simply unfair.

“No,” is what he says.

Uthvir smirks down at him, and caresses their other hand down his chest.

“Well then, my prince,” they purr. “It seems that I have caught you… and in  _quite_  a vulnerable position, too…”

Thenvunin shivers.

“Oh no,” he sighs.

Whatever is he going to do?

 

~

 

It is not too often, these days, that a spirit corrupts in Daran.

But it  _does_  happen.

One of Uthvir’s agents brings word of telling signs at one of the unoccupied, seasonal residences just outside the city. The little hut belongs to a farmer, Alessil, who keeps livestock, and brings his animals to the fields near the utmost outskirts of the city’s territories, to graze on a rotation. Alessil and his livestock are currently in Tethar’an, however – one of the smaller cities, which has been experimenting with new crops. Uthvir has never been there, but, the relevant portion of the matter is that Alessil’s hut is meant to be unoccupied. And certainly not exuding perilously negative energy, and withering the grass within a ten foot radius of the walls.

“I will handle it,” they decide, and send their agent to go and inform Elalas of the pertinent details.

Uthvir means to simply head out, make their own assessment of the hut, and, most likely, dispatch the spirit themselves. They have some leave to handle these situations, and it is generally better to deal with them  _quickly,_  and with as little alarm as possible. Corrupted spirits are demoralizing, but more than that, they tend to inspire a lot of rumour-mongering and finger-pointing. The fact of the matter, of course, is that for all their changes to the territories, spirits are still spirits. The number of things which can twist and corrupt them are too numerous to constantly account for, and when that corruption makes them dangerous, there are few forms of recourse which do not still ultimately shatter the spirit.

But people like to have concrete reasons for things. Explanations, motivations – specific problems that can be solved. The vagaries of fate do not ease any fears.

Better to deal with the matter quickly, one way or another, before word of it spreads too far.

After the agent goes, however, Thenvunin heads over from where he had been handling some of his own work at the spare desk.

“I will come with you,” he declares.

Uthvir half-turns, and raises an eyebrow at him.

“You were not supposed to be listening to that,” they remind him.

“Well I was,” he replies, folding his arms and lifting his chin, and not giving any quarter. Uthvir feels a mingled rush of fondness and irritation. In some ways, they think, Thenvunin was easier to deal with when his preoccupation with ‘propriety’ dictated more of his responses.

But they can hardly lament the change. Not when it generally seems to make him much  _happier,_  too.

“You should take someone with you,” Thenvunin carries on. Uthvir opens their mouth, and he raises a hand. “No, you should take  _me_  with you. If you take an agent you will just make them stand back while you handle it. But really, Uthvir, you have no idea what it even  _is._ ”

“Which is precisely why you should not come,” they counter. “I have no idea what it is; you could get hurt.”

“So could you!”

Thenvunin digs in his heels. Uthvir resists the urge to run a hand across their face.

It is not as if he cannot handle himself in a crisis, they remind themselves. They would feel better about it if they knew precisely what sort of spirit they were dealing with – but if this ends up being more of a reconnaissance mission, then so be it. They think that is probably what Thenvunin is angling for anyway. Not that Uthvir would rush in to fight a foe they were ill-matched against. Particularly not while Mana’Din is in the city. But…

He frets, of course.

“Alright. Let us go and get ready, then,” they decide.

Thenvunin graces them with an approving smile, and walks with them back to their chambers. To his credit, he selects his best combat sword and proper armour for the excursion. Uthvir changes into some of their own more robust gear, and retrieves one of their enchanted spears from the weapons’ rack. They check that their hair is firmly tied – they really  _should_  cut it, soon – and then frown over at Thenvunin’s own loose locks.

_Dangerous._

“You should put your hair up,” they tell him.

He huffs at them.

“It is fine, Uthvir,” he insists, not for the first time. “I did not spend hundreds of years practicing combat with loose hair to not know how to fight with it.”

“I know how to fight one-handed, but you hardly see me heading out with one of my wrists tied behind my back,” they counter.

“Loose hair is fashionable, we are going to be walking straight through the main road. I hardly think-”

Uthvir very nearly interrupts with a quippy comment about how obvious it is that Thenvunin has  _hardly thought,_  and it is perhaps a good thing that another interruption comes first. Because that comment would have been too sharp, they suspect, and likely would have left them feeling guilty and displeased with themselves until they could make it up to him.

The alternate interruption comes in the form of a fast-paced knock at the door.

Another one of their agents is waiting behind it.

“You wanted to know if anything changed, Spymaster, with Alessil’s hut?” she says, and at Uthvir’s nod, shifts slightly on the balls of her feet. “The grass has started to recover. It could be the spirit has moved somewhere, but, no one has seen anything.”

“Noted,” Uthvir says, with a nod. “Keep eyes on it until we get there.” They will have to hurry, now. A glance back reveals that Thenvunin is already approaching the door himself, though. And so the argument is put aside as they make their way swiftly through the palace corridors, and out towards the main street.

A few passersby look at them with obvious interest. It is clear that they are dressed for  _something,_  but that sort of speculation is less of an issue than others.

Thenvunin’s hair gleams in the sunlight.

Uthvir’s fingers twitch, and not with their usual longing. They have to bite back the urge to take their own hair tie out, and tie his locks back and away from his face. That would be foolish, though. As little as they might agree with his choices for it, at the moment, Uthvir  _does_  have less experience in fighting with loose hair. And their own is too long at the moment, too.

The thought gives them pause. Makes them remember when they had first arrived, and Thenvunin’s hair had been cut. In Andruil’s palace he had begun to wear it like a shield. Something to hide behind, rather than something to pamper and take pride in. Before then, though, it had always been pretty, and often decorated. Curled or quaffed or strewn with jewels.

Now it is nearly as long as it had been before, but he is far less apt to bead or braid anything into it. He does not hide behind it, either. It is something to take pride in, but only in and of itself. And extension of Thenvunin – no adornment needed.

Uthvir would admire the symbolism of letting it waft free in the breeze a great deal more if they were not potentially heading into combat.

“Stop it,” Thenvunin hisses at them, when they finally turn off the main road.

“Stop what?” Uthvir asks, honestly a little surprised. They are not even touching him.

“Stop glaring at my hair,” he insists.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow. They reach up, and brush one of his locks behind his ear. He sighs at them.

“I am not  _glaring_ at it, beloved. I am only trying to reconcile my admiration for it with my concern that it might get yanked out of your scalp.”

That brings him up short, for a moment. Uthvir supposes they do not often plainly admit to things like that. Well, they often admit their admiration; but the worries, not so much. Generally those tend to be too numerous to bother with.

Thenvunin reaches over, and threads an arm through theirs.

“That has never happened on a battlefield,” he tells them.

Small mercies.

Uthvir lets it go, as best they can.

The rest of the walk to the outskirts is a little more tense than usual, however. Outside the city the roads turn soft, winding through the orchards, and heading up towards the outdoor baths, and down into the farmlands. Two main trade roads lead out of Daran, each with an eluvian. There had only been one citywide eluvian when Uthvir and Thenerassan had first arrived. The second eluvian is larger. Better suited for caravans and , ostensibly, more befitting of guests – such as other leaders and peacekeeper contingents. Conveniently, it is also located much further from the city, and well within sight of Uthvir’s lookouts.

Today, though, their aim is the farmlands. The cluster of city buildings and homes outside the walls eventually gives way to fields, and crops, and a few grazing herds. Alessil’s hut is in the further fields, well off the main roads, and near to the edge of the ‘safe’ range. But not too far from one of the main warding shells that holds the spellwork to keep the roads safe. Uthvir sees its glow once they crest the remnants of an old sleepers’ mound, and then the hut, not far from it.

Their agents are an outpost on the opposite side. One which exists mainly to keep an eye on the wards; but today they send up a magical sign, and get one back, which sees that their people are watching the hut, instead.

The grass looks fine now, but the air around it is  _too_  still. Silent in a way that implies that the usual ambience which should fill it has been chased off. Once they get past the warding shell, the feeling becomes  _much_  more pronounced. The hairs on the back of Uthvir’s neck start to stand up as well, prickling to attention. A sense of familiar unease overtakes them, and for a moment they wonder what has set Fear off – until they realize that it is leeching into them from the  _outside._

Not  _their_  Fear.

But  _a_  Fear.

They pause. Staring at the innocuous outline of Alessil’s hut, and the dark stain of its door. A slight wind rustles some leaves off of the rooftop. After a moment, they extend a hand out in front of Thenvunin.

“Wait here,” they say.

Thenvunin looks as though he might object, for a moment. But a glance from them, and he only draws a breath in through his nose, and then lets it out in a disapproving fashion. He is willing to follow their lead, though, and Uthvir appreciates it. They squeeze his arm, once, before making their way up the last turn of the path, and to the door of the hut.

The stain on it gets darker.

They stop a decent ways away, and settle their spear into their hands. Using the butt of it to test the door. Closed tight, they find, and by the sounds of the brief rattle, it is locked as well. The windows are shuttered, too.

Fear can sense it now, though.  Dark and clustered and  _hiding._  Cornered prey. They barely have a moment to register the full implications of that, along with the sudden, sharp upswing in fear as their spear accidentally scrapes the wood a little harder than they intended, before the door explodes in a flurry of shadows and splinters. The air buzzing like a swarm of enraged hornets.

“Uthvir!” Thenvunin shouts. Pelting up towards them.

The spirit shrieks, and the windows in the hut shatter. The grass withers, icing over in places, a surge of sheer terror ripples through the air.

It only takes them a moment to recover, though.

The creature, when it rushes them, is a disjointed mess. Teeth and skeletal arms, claws and horns, as if it cannot decide whether it is a goat or an elf or some sort of large cat. Uthvir casts a barrier, lets its claws swipe uselessly over their armour, and moves to gain enough distance to actually use their spear. They leap back, and channel a fire spell through the shaft of it. Burning some of the buzz from the air, and making the corrupted spirit reel.

But Thenvunin is charging towards it, so they cannot go far.

The fight is a flurry of movements and impressions. The spirit trying to hide, to darken the air; attacking in panic and retreating in fits, only to come striking back at them. In all honesty, Uthvir cannot even tell if it is  _one_  spirit, or more. It may be Fear but the nature of its corruption is quite different from the kind born of a gradual degradation. Something more chaotic than that brought this about.

They do their best to subdue it, but it only takes a few minutes for them to realize that subduing will not be a viable strategy. There are two moments of clarity with this.

The first comes when the spirit warps itself through the air, and tries to sink its claws into their back. Howling and shrieking, until Fear snaps back at it, a rush of brittle energy that has Uthvir turning and driving their spear up into part of the creature’s disjointed form in retaliation. Their heart hammers and their back aches with summoned ghost pain. The spirit can draw upon it, they realize; and Thenvunin is here, and…

…And then they see clawed hands close around the locks of Thenvunin’s free-flowing hair, and they know they will have to simply kill it. Capture will take too long, and it will try and torture them all the meanwhile.

That is the analytical thought, of course.

The surge of reflexive fear and desperate outrage are perhaps, the moment, more pressing motivations.

Thenvunin lurches as his hair is  _yanked_  and Uthvir narrows their eyes and throws their spear, letting Fear grip it with a tether that makes the throw less of a  _throw,_  really, and more of a vicious, outward stab. There are enough shadows pouring from the spirit to more than disguise the move, as they drive the point straight through the thickest part of the creature. Thenvunin is already reacting himself, lifting his blade and calling up a spell that has the hands withdrawing. Shrieking. The strands of his hair  _glow,_  and seem to burn the spirit wherever they touch.

Uthvir blinks.

…That… they have never actually seen him do  _that_  before.

They file the development away for later. The counterattack has given them an opening to take down the Fear spirit, and they do. Their back still aching as they call up enough force to break the creature apart, and finally still its rampant shifting and shrieking. Shards of it fall, like raining black glass, into the nearby field. And then a moment later, there is a second burst.

Uthvir draws up beside Thenvunin, wary, and then comprehending as the next rain of shards falls like flower petals instead. White and blood red. Shining, faintly, with the last light of whatever that spirit had been. The air ripples, for a moment. A few odd echoes of magic trail around them, and slip down and out of the locks of Thenvunin’s hair.

For a moment, Uthvir feels almost as if someone has wrapped a tether around their wrist and Thenvunin’s. Red and shining like the falling petals. But when they look, they only see their hands.

After a moment, they let out a breath.

“Oh,” Thenvunin says, as the last petal falls, and then dissolves into the Dreaming. “Poor thing.”

_Poor thing._

They turn, and look him over more carefully. Reaching up to check his scalp, but he only leans his head down towards them, and catches their hand.

“It did not pull for long, Uthvir. I told you – I know what I am doing.”

“How long have you known that trick?” they ask, and let their hand remain in his. It still feels like there is something there. Wrapped, so faintly, around them. The spirit must have been some sort of… sticking thing, before it corrupted. Perhaps one of the sorts that often perform bonding ceremonies. Making some last, trifling effort to tie the nearest two elves together.

It feels pleasant enough, anyway.

Thenvunin shrugs.

“I taught it to myself centuries ago,” he admits, and casts his eyes around the field. “Should we look for shards?”

Uthvir inclines their head, and finally lets go of him again.

They search the field, and find only a few that were large enough to linger on this side of the Dreaming. Already, they can detect spirits moving in, to try and gather up the rest. The few pieces they gather, they tuck into a pouch at their belt. Mana’Din can determine what to do with them. Uthvir will have to handle the subsequent investigation, in the meanwhile. Alessil will need to be interviewed, and other spirits will have to be consulted. Though, in cases such as these, sometimes mystery is all that persists. The spirit might well have simply chosen the hut as a good place to hide, after fleeing from any number of places in the Dreaming or Waking. Or it may not have, but it could be easy enough for Alessil or any of his associates to claim as much.

Uthvir checks the hut, before they go. But there is nothing seemingly suspicious or noteworthy about it. They set up a barrier to temporarily replace the door, and make a mental note to have an agent come out and put in a replacement. No sense letting any stray animal or nosy neighbour wander in as they please.

And then they find themselves taking Thenvunin’s hand again, unthinking, as they head back towards the road.

 

~

 

This was a terrible idea.

Thenvunin knew it the whole time, really. It was just… it was also an idea he simply could not stop  _contemplating._  Not since the third time he and Uthvir indulged in Uthvir’s ‘little gift’, and Uthvir had decided to whisper a  _host_  of inappropriate suggestions whilst thrusting into him from behind; gripping him so tightly that their claws left marks on his thighs.

“I should put this on you the next time there is some dull and tedious event,” they had purred. Tightening their grip when Thenvunin’s control slipped, and the suggestion managed to coincide with an inward thrust that hit  _precisely_  the right place, as the heat around his cock tightened. He had gasped, and Uthvir had taken it as encouragement, of course.

“Just imagine you, sitting at some table or making turns around a banquet hall. Trying to make smalltalk while it feels like I am sucking you off. My touch on you even while I am all the way across the room. I wonder how well you could hide your reactions then, hm? With all those eyes on you. Wondering why your cheeks were flushing; why you kept shifting in your seat, or standing behind so many tables all evening…”

He had spoken their name in protest of the  _lewd_  suggestion, of course; but it had still sent him over the edge. And the association was made right then, Thenvunin would insist, between the concept and the notion of excitement - and certainly not a moment before.

After that Incident, too, Thenvunin had been forced to make an emergency trip out of one of the military forts near the borderlands with Ghilan’nain’s territories, to deal with a disciplinary issue. That had gone on for much longer than expected, as one issue had seemed to lead into five others just as soon as he solved it, and in the end it had been an entire month before he had been able to return home.

Only to learn that several of June’s city planners were expected to arrive later that afternoon, to discuss a matter pertaining to the plans for Mana’Din’s Arlathan holdings, and more specifically the agricultural territory outside of the city which was technically under her jurisdiction. Uthvir was expected to attend, and of course, with his return, Thenvunin could hardly shirk such a duty, either. It has not been too long since he was the one  _planning_  events such as these - the current event planner, Neneleth, still often seeks his opinion on preparing and executing various functions in the city.

But it is, perhaps, the very  _last_  thing he wants to spend his evening doing, after a month in the fort, without Uthvir or his birds or his daughter, nor the many more familiar faces of Daran.

And it does not help in the  _least_  that Uthvir can hardly keep their hands to themselves. Not that Thenvunin minds, he missed them terribly, and he supposes that  _technically_  they are not doing anything particularly lewd. They kiss his wrist and then his lips, and keep one of their hands at the small of his back as they walk him to their chambers, and help him change out of his dusty travel clothes. 

But they are wearing some of their nicest armour. Sleek and sharp and straddling that line of theirs between refinement and danger. 

Thenvunin nearly embarrasses himself  _several_  times before the afternoon even arrives. He keeps catching himself, and then reminding himself that it is  _not_  shameful for him to be so enthralled, to want their touch. Dammit all, he missed them  _terribly_  and it is not as if he  _only_  wants  _that._  He wants to run his fingers through their hair, and feel their arms wrap around him, and sit with them and just - just be  _near_  them, too.

But also…

Well.

Other things.

And so, as they are getting ready for the banquet, Thenvunin cannot help his mind turning towards Uthvir’s  _gift_  and Uthvir’s  _suggestions._  Meeting with June’s Arlathan city planners is often like watching paint dry, but without the quietude or the restfulness. And Thenvunin had caught himself wishing on more than one occasion that he had brought Uthvir’s gift along with him, though he had not quite been able to bring himself to pack it at the time.

It didn’t work without them in the same building at least, anyway. And they had to know that he was using it, in order to control the spells. Oh, he could still wear it, of course, but it would just be… ahem. A restraint, and nothing more.

When they are getting ready for the banquet, Uthvir offers to help comb out Thenvunin’s hair. They are already more or less finished with their own attire, so while Thenvunin changes, they take a brush and start straightening out some of the more unruly curls that have taken up residence in his hair. Whispering a few charms to smooth down the locks. Their fingers brush his ears a few times, and Thenvunin finds himself shivering, and feels a familiar note of heat sink  _straight_  through him and - and…

He feels himself hardening, in a rush of mingled desire and embarrassment, and frustration that aims itself mostly at the banquet.

The third time Uthvir’s fingers brush the backs of his ears, he snaps.

“Would you  _stop that?”_  he huffs. 

“Stop what?” Uthvir asks, brush halting in concern.

Again, Thenvunin huffs. And part of him, quietly, thinks that they really did not mean to, but he is just so flustered and frustrated and he is  _hard_  and now he keeps thinking about fingers and lips and they are standing  _much too close._

And not nearly close enough.

“Stop teasing me!” he insists. “We have to go to dinner, and unless you want to make good on your  _ridiculously licentious_ plan to use That Gift on me all while we sit through the tedium of dinner and negotiations, then there is nothing for it until it is finished, and I have already spent this past  _month_  missing your touch so badly I…”

Thenvunin trails off, in a rush of embarrassment, and looks hurriedly over at the wall.

Uthvir is quiet for a moment. 

Then they slowly tuck his straightened hair behind his hair. Letting their touch linger deliberately, in a way that both thrills and further frustrates him. He shivers, and swallows, and shifts at the growing discomfort between his legs.

He feels it when they lean in closer. Their breath brushing the corner of his jaw.

“Oh,  _Thenvunin,”_ they say, and he knows he is done for because now they really  _are_  teasing him.

Reaching up, he makes the reasonable decision to bat them away. They laugh at him, though, and the laugh does absolutely  _nothing_  to help his situation. Nor does the light in their eyes, when he finally looks at them. They look so  _fond,_  it must surely be inappropriate, somehow.

“I missed you too,” they quip, and offer him a wink. “And your suggestion is a  _brilliant_  one.”

His mouth goes dry.

“My suggestion?” he asks, as if he did not know that he made one.

But even he knows the game is up. He can hardly admit it, though, and Uthvir does not need him to. They simply smirk, and tell him they will be back in a moment, and then head off towards the closet. Thenvunin pretends he does not know what they are getting, as he finishes fixing his own hair - and they had  _better not_  make a mess of it again before they are even out of the door - and selects an outfit with a significant amount of  _billow_  in the front. And finishes undressing, for the second time that day. 

And then waits.

Uthvir does not leave him waiting for long.

Their hands slide across his hips. Thenvunin closes his eyes, and lets himself lean back against them. Lets his weight rest on them, just for a moment, and wishes that he really  _could_  simply fall into their arms right now.

Uthvir’s teeth graze the back of his shoulder. They are holding their Gift, but they let their free hand venture towards his arousal, first.

“I think we should probably take the edge off, hm?” they suggest.

Thenvunin bites his lip as they close a hand around his length, and makes a soft ‘ngh’ sound rather than replying. His cheeks heat, but before he can manage a better response, Uthvir smiles against him and tightens their grip. Their teeth press a little more firmly to him, and  _oh,_  they are going to put a mark on him, and he is going to feel it all evening, along with  _everything_  else.

He actually feels a rush of nervousness, at that. His hands flutter at his sides.

“Uthvir…”

They press a kiss to his skin, rather than a bite.

“Not too much, I know,” they say. “But you can let go here, beloved. It is just the two of us for now.”

They stroke him, and he braces a hand against the wall, as their hips grind against him from behind. The sharp points of their armour so perilously close to his softer places. Their nails still long and razor-like, even as the warmth of their palm grips him. It is a quick, sordid job. Not as slick as when they have oils and time and they go slow and fast by turns, but they touch him as if they have been waiting centuries rather than weeks. Desperate and greedy as they turn their kiss into a sucking bruise, and angle more of his weight against him; and growl when he comes with a broken gasp.

He spills messily onto the floor. They give him a few more strokes, and he almost forgets the ring in their grasp, as he comes down from the quick and filthy rush of it. But he remembers as he feels the warmed metal, and the odd press of it fitting itself to him. The tingling, which quiets after a moment. The ring fits itself around his softening cock, and seems content to hold that shape, as Uthvir shifts their hold on him and whispers several spells that make the metal gleam.

“What did you do?” Thenvunin wonders.

They pat his hip.

“I turned off the release word,” they say.

He stiffens, and gulps at the implications of that. 

“ _Uthvir,”_  he hisses.

But Uthvir gives him another reassuring pat, and the air around them exudes comfort, for a moment.

“You hardly want it going off during the banquet,” they remind him. “Or else every time you said  _that_  we would have a problem.”

…He supposes he can concede their point on that front, at least.

“You are going to drive me  _mad,”_  he accuses, nevertheless.

They chuckle at him, and move back a little. The air feels too cold against his skin, for a moment. He had not realized how hot they were running, but there is some considerable colour in their own cheeks, too.

“I can still release it,” they tell him, insufferably smug about it. “All you need to do is ask.”

Thenvunin sniffs.

“As if I will,” he asserts, and starts cleaning up the mess, and checks the time. He has to hurry to get all of his outfit on, then, but Uthvir helps again, and while the brush of their hands still draws his mind in  _certain_  directions, his loins at least behave themselves until they manage to get out of the door.

Uthvir settles their hand against his lower back, as is often their habit, and it turns out to be more helpful than he would have thought as they make their way to the reception hall. Thenvunin’s nerves seem to increase with every step, and the closer they get to their destination, the more he thinks he should rush back to their rooms and change out of… of  _it,_  and make his apologies for being late.

His heart speeds up. His mouth goes dry, and for one moment, when they are at the doorway, Thenvunin remembers walking to the dining hall in Andruil’s palace. Remembers the feel of eyes on him and the way it made him feel, slick and sickly and sinking, sometimes excited despite himself, but always in a way that hollowed out the bottom of his stomach, and made him want to run and hide.

Uthvir’s hand moves up his back, a little.

“Wait,” they say, and halt. Thenvunin stops with them. The light from the palace windows is still bright, with the late afternoon set to bleed into a long evening. The banners sway and the air is clear, there are no trophies on the walls, no open fires burning in the reception hall. The feeling fades, even as Uthvir speaks.

“You had a long trip,” they remind him. “If you want to just head back, and rest in our rooms, I will finish with this as soon as I can. No one could hold it against you - no one was even certain you would be back in time for this, and you scarcely are.”

Thenvunin lets out a breath, and gives the prospect a moment of serious contemplation.

But… no.

If nothing else, he thinks, he would like to have dinner with Uthvir. And… and when he thinks of it, the plan no longer seems so perilous. Uthvir is in control of their gift, after all. They will not let him make an utter fool out of himself, or push him too far, and Thenvunin knows for a fact that they will spend the better part of the evening increasing their own fervent libido with all this, too.

And when they  _do_  get back to their rooms..

He lets out a long breath.

“I am alright,” he assures them, lifting his chin. “Really, Uthvir, it is only a light banquet. The greatest risk would be falling asleep as Assurance drones on and on about foundation structures and aquifers.”

Uthvir gives him a long look, before their own lips curl upwards.

“Well,” they murmur. “I shall do my best to make certain you are not too bored.”

Thenvunin shivers, and bats their arm in reprimand for that  _obscene_  tone of theirs, before they make their way into the hall with more confident steps.

 

~

 

Thenvunin does not usually feel powerful during sex.

He has felt things  _powerfully_  during sex, of course. As embarrassing as it is to admit, he is… he responds well to various stimulation. And attention. And with Uthvir, over the years, it has changed and gotten better, and the emotional resonance and the bond between them are all, of course, perfectly reasonable explanations for that. But he can admit, he has always had  _strong feelings_  around physical intimacy.

But, power has never been among them. Thenvunin feels powerful when his magic is high. He feels powerful when he is winning a fight, or an argument. When he is speaking to a room, and the room is  _listening._  He feels powerful when he and Uthvir are side-by-side, working towards a common goal.

For a long time, however, Thenvunin had thought that the only way to feel powerful was to dominate. And for much of that time, he had told himself that being the kind of person who sought to feel powerful during sex was inherently aggressive. That was why Sethtaren had been the way he was. He hurt Thenvunin because his drives were  _powerful,_  too powerful to resist or hold back, and if someone who was as good and noble as Sethtaren could be driven to such extremes by lust, it had only stood to reason that anyone with less character, with the same urges, would be a brute. A savage. The sort of malicious creature that only drew pleasure from knowing that it was coming at someone else’s expense.

He had not wanted to consider that Sethtaren was never what his heart imagined. That his first love was a lie. And it had been easier to at least commend himself on not being a brute. Even if he was so easily aroused by ‘such people’, the implications went down somewhat easier when he told himself it was a repercussion of his good character.

It still shakes him, sometimes, to realize how utterly wrong he managed to be about so many things.

Even so, he had not expected his attempt to coax Uthvir into the baths with him to make him feel  _powerful._

It was just… well, Uthvir can be tense on vacations. They hover, and they rarely avail themselves of the facility, and they fuss  _endlessly_  over housing arrangements and facilities and who is going to be where and really, Thenvunin has known event coordinators less strenuously invested in such things. Not  _good_  event coordinators, but still. Their trip to Tel’sedil is supposed to be relaxing. Family time and couple time, not just a moment where Uthvir and Lavellan are indulging him, as they sometimes do.

He had finally had enough of it with Uthvir standing at the edge of the private hot spring bath he had reserved, watching the path like some kind of sentry. As if they were Thenvunin’s bodyguard, and not his heart. His first attempts to lure them over had certainly worked, in a sense, but after they had finished ‘helping him apply his lotion’, they had gone back to standing guard in full armour. On a beautiful day, with a warm bath waiting.

So Thenvunin had been forced to take extreme measures.

 _I am going to feel like such a fool,_  he had thought, as he had settled into the bath, and worked up the nerve to attempt it. But it had never  _once_  failed to get Uthvir’s attention. He knows they like it – he has been trying, over and over, to get better at it. Because he does want to please them. And there is certainly something to be said for the feel of their eyes on him, as he touches himself. It is just that generally, there is more to be said for the humiliation of the experience. The thought that he must look so – so  _needy._  So horribly lustful and lacking in dignity or restraint. And so awkward and ungainly, too.

It had taken him a while to work up the nerve for the first stroke of himself. The water had been clear. But if he tilted his head back, he could imagine that it was not. And when he sighed, he knew Uthvir heard it. When he let that sigh turn to a moan, he could feel their gaze move towards him. He had kept his touch steady, had tried his best not to think of how he must look, or how embarrassing it was. Instead he focused on the wet slide of his hand, and on letting himself go.

When the next moan ended in Uthvir’s name, it was not long at all before he heard clattering at the side of the bath, and finally looked up to see Uthvir divesting themselves of their armour in record time. They had still been half-clothed when they had gotten into the water, but… it had gotten them into the bath, anyway. Into the bath and pressed up beside him, murmuring fervent whispers and encouragements,  _begging_  him to keep going.  _Keep going, Thenvunin, please, I want to see you._

It had startled him that the rush of feeling which immediately followed was not shame, or nausea, or self-loathing – but rather the same sort of feeling he might get from a battlefield, or a winning debate at council. A heady rush of victory, that had him firming his grip and carrying on, as requested.

Uthvir had seemed so  _caught,_  though. So utterly captivated. They had gone from teasing him and stepping back and keeping to their limits, to diving into the bath with him. Just because Thenvunin had shown them how much he wanted them, had aroused them so thoroughly that even if he was not being aggressive, he was still getting precisely what he wanted.

He wants to feel powerful like that again.

Of course, the first thing he had done was try touching himself for them the next day, too. While they lay abed. But while Uthvir had certainly expressed a lot of approval and support for the effort, Thenvunin had found that the effect was not quite the same. Because they were already enticed, he supposed. They were probably planning to lay with him that morning anyway. It was still – he had still enjoyed it, quite a lot, but really, he wants to  _understand._

He does not want to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again. He does not want to indulge anymore ‘convenient’ illusions. He does not want to just force Uthvir to take care of everything, to keep things going in the right direction – it isn’t fair of him.

And it might be why they are still so hesitant to acknowledge what is between the both of them.

So Thenvunin waits a few days. Uthvir does not sleep much on vacation. They usually dress down and often climb into bed with him when he settles in for the evening, but Thenvunin has learned to tell the difference between them sleeping and getting up early, and them waiting until  _he_  is asleep and then getting up to spend the entire evening prowling around. Lavellan has become quite taken with some of the lectures at the city library, particularly the ones pertaining to pre-Arlathan folklore. Thenvunin is glad. She has always had an interest in that sort of thing – perhaps it might entice her to spend a few years on scholarly pursuits? And the head lecturer is the sort of elf whom Thenvunin cannot help but think of as a ‘sweet girl’, even though she is a few thousand years older than him.

So a week into their vacation, while Lavellan is spending the day at the archives, and when Uthvir is beginning to look over-tensed again, Thenvunin musters himself and decides he is going to do it.

He is going to entice them to him again.

He expresses a desire to stay in and have a restful day, which Uthvir does not object to. They decide to walk with Lavellan to the archives, which is perfectly convenient. It gives Thenvunin time to get ready. He sets a marker on the door, so that he will be able to tell if anyone other than Uthvir comes in – just in case Lavellan comes back with them for some reason, or they meet someone they want to bring over. Though the latter prospect is very unlikely. But even just contemplating what might happen if  _Lavellan_  were to stumble upon… no, it would be beyond appalling.

Better not to take any chance at all on that front.

Uthvir has set a lot of spells of their own on the door, though, so in the end, Thenvunin spends more time than he had anticipated trying to find a suitable place for his own. Once he has, he has to hurry back to the bedroom. He had thought to dress provocatively, but after a moment’s reconsideration, he opts to simply drape a robe over himself instead. Good enough to cover himself up if he needs to, and it is one which Uthvir has promised not to shred.

He wonders if he can arouse them enough to forget…?

Probably not, but he shivers at the notion.

And then he has to swallow, as he retrieves his favourite phallus from one of the bags they brought, and some oil, and settles onto the bed. Relaxing is something of a challenge. Every noise has him straightening back up again, wondering if it is Uthvir returning, or if somehow the room’s proprietor has decided to check on it – even though that would be most inappropriate, with it being in active use and no request being made for such things.

But after a few minutes, he calms down enough to start to find a pace. Working his fingers inside of himself, not touching himself yet – he does not want Uthvir to find him  _spent,_  after all – and imagining their touch. Their voice, rough with lust, and warm with affection.  _Oh, Thenvunin, I do so love the way you feel around my cock. I am going to enjoy fucking you senseless. My beautiful man, shall I roll you over…?_

His cheeks flush as he stretches himself, and he bites his lip as he lets himself imagine a tongue there, rather than fingers. A slick barrier of fabric, or magic. Uthvir’s breath against his slick, and slow, deliberate slide of their mouth. He presses himself from the inside, struggling to get the right angle before he abandons the quest with his fingers, and instead begins to work the phallus into himself.

It warms at the touch of his skin. He is not as loose as Uthvir usually makes him, so, he forces himself to slow down after moment. If they come in to find that he has injured himself, they will not be seduced – they will be upset.

And that thought has him halting, for a moment. Lingering, and waiting with the phallus half inside of him, as Uthvir might if they were checking in with him. They would pull out, he thinks. They would look at his face and feel his tightness around them, read the tension in him, somehow, and they would slide back out and press more kisses to his neck. Move their fingers back to him, and so Thenvunin does that, and works himself over again, and then finally slides the toy easily inside.

The pressure feels…

It feels  _so good._

Not as good as the real thing, but too good for him to deny, under the circumstances. He shifts his hips, and lets it stay put for a moment. He is hard, and he wants so badly to touch himself, to offer his arousal some relief. But he has lost all track of the time. And so instead he focuses on spreading his hair out over the pillows, and arranging the robe in an artful manner that would still be easy to cover himself with, if need be.

After that, he takes some time to move the phallus in and out of himself. Imagining Uthvir gripping his wrists, and watching his cock bob with their thrusts. Their gaze heated and their grip strong, their voice a low purr.  _Are you going to come just from having me inside you, Thenvunin? What a magnificent thought…_

He is sliding the toy on an inward stroke when he hears the door open.

He stills. His warning did not go off. It is just Uthvir, then. The steps in the hall are quiet, and familiarly so.

“I brought some breakfast,” Uthvir calls. “Lavellan expects she will be gone most of the day.”

Thenvunin lets out a breath of relief, and then turns it into a soft moan.

Tentatively, he pushes the toy the rest of the way back in, and then closes a hand around his arousal. He hears a pause, and then footsteps moving towards the room. There is arousal in the air. It is not as hard as he might have guessed to thicken it. He hears a soft intake of breath, and tightens his grip, but he shuts his eyes just when he sees Uthvir’s shadow reach the doorway.

 _It is just Uthvir,_  he reminds himself.  _Just Uthvir, and they have seen this all before, and they enjoy it._

He has arranged himself as best he can, he knows. And so he moves his hand, stroking himself, biting his lip and shifting his hips upwards. Mustering another moan, surprised himself at how wanton it is, as he strokes his cock and then licks his lips.

_This is it._

“ _Uthvir_ ,” he murmurs.

It happens again, then. Just as he had hoped. The heady rush of lust, swift and fierce and  _empowering._  He moans again from it, feeling just like a struck match, and opens his eyes. All his tangled worries far away for a moment. Uthvir’s cheeks are dark, giving them that peculiar, slightly metallic look. They are staring at him with enough heat to curl his toes, and make his heart skip. Moving towards him, reaching for him.

Thenvunin raises a hand, and they stop.

He licks his lips.

“Clothes off?” he requests.

They had undressed so  _quickly_  at the bath. And they do it again, now, barely hesitating a moment before stripping down. He knows they have troubles with it, and part of him wonders if he should feel guilty for insisting. But there is something so amazing about seeing them readily divest themselves, to press their skin against his skin and touch him softly as well sharply.

This time, they take every stitch off.

For a moment, when they climb onto the bed, they look as if they do not know quite where to touch him. As if they are reluctant to interrupt.

Thenvunin really does not know why they enjoy watching him do this so much. Though… he, he has enjoyed watching  _them_. Knowing that they were thinking of him, that they were overcome with desire for him. So fervent that they could only grasp at themselves and call out his name, and… perhaps it is simply the same, in the end. Perhaps there is not so much difference between either of their yearnings.

He keeps on stroking himself, as Uthvir finally settles on nudging one of his legs up, and giving him something to grip as he increases the pace. Their gaze alights onto the phallus inside of him, and the lust in the air surges again. Their hands tightening on him, their eyes all but molten. Thenvunin thinks they mean to pull the toy out and replace it with their own stiffening cock, but after a moment, they only rock their hips against his.

And oh, it is  _electric,_  the feel of their arousal sliding against his skin, as its copy stretches him from the inside, and he strokes himself. A surprised curse escapes him. He grips Uthvir’s arm. They settle a hand against his chest in return, their palm warm as his pace races. His heart skips another beat. The bond between them is rich with sentiment, and there is, for once, no room in it for hesitation. Everything from the softness of their skin, to the press of their nails, and the weight of them leaning into him, and the sturdiness of their strength as he clings to them… everything, he loves it.

He loves this.

He loves  _them._  So, so much.

It flood the bond and it floods the air, buoyed by desire, and Thenvunin comes with a cry. Messy and sooner than expected, under his own hand rather than Uthvir’s, but none of that is as surprising as the  _sound_  Uthvir makes when he does. Nor as surprising as the rush of familiar, sticky warmth against his backside, as Uthvir’s own cock twitches and spends itself.

Thenvunin pants. Dazed by stars and still gripping them tight.

How did…?

Uthvir has come sooner than planned on many occasions, of course, but never with so little stimulus.

His chest aches. The bond aches, and he pulls it back, carefully. Suddenly aware of how open it had become. Ah. That might explain things. He murmurs an apology, which has Uthvir blinking, and tentatively runs a hand up and down their arm.

When they do not pull away from the touch, he settles his other hand onto their hip, too.

They are a little hoarse, when they manage to speak. As if they are the one who has been spending the better part of the morning getting all wound up.

“What…?” they say.

Thenvunin puts aside the temptation to bring up the bond again. That is not what he is doing, today. Today is about other desires. About doing the work to make that subject less tense, hopefully.

“I missed you,” he says, instead.

They snort at him, and some of the air lightens, at last. Amusement slipping in. Simplifying things, and letting Uthvir regain their bearings. They lean in and press a kiss to his lips. Thenvunin’s lust must be sated for the moment, but he does not think it would take much to get going again.

“And here I was only gone a few moments,” they murmur. “Small wonder you are so insatiable when I leave for missions.”

Their tone is teasing. And Thenvunin’s huff is equally staged, as he works his fingers into their hair.

“And who tore off all their own clothes to join me?” he counters.

Uthvir grins.

“Oh, I do not deny it,” they murmur, before nipping at his lips. “I am always hungry for more of you.”

Thenvunin’s eyes slip closed again, as their touch begins to wander.

“I am so glad,” he whispers.

And that… that is true. Has been, for a long while. It would only be a weakness, he thinks, if Uthvir meant to hurt him with it. But instead, they accept it with heat and reverence, turning sweet and reassuring as they thank him for the warm welcome back.

He will not deny any of his love for them anymore.

…At least, not when he can help it.

 

~

 

Sometimes, when Uthvir is close by, and there are no particular distractions around, Thenvunin can feel their happiness through the bond.

It is one of his favourite things about it.

It does not happen very often, and it took him some time to figure out what it was. It began not too long after their vacation, in fact. The sensation is rather like a… like a  _puff,_  inside of his chest. Pleasant and warm, but not overwhelming, and often strangely secretive-feeling. Uthvir does not outwardly express happiness very often, and when they do, it is typically with a smile, or a rare, genuine laugh. So Thenvunin often finds himself surprised by the sensation.

And by what seems to summon it.

Oh, some things are not a surprise. Uthvir is happy when Lavellan comes to see them, and they are happy when they complete a task to their satisfaction. They are happy when good news comes their way. But… Thenvunin had not realized before how happy it makes them to bring him gifts. The first time they manage to find a set of scented bath oils, of a sort he has not had access to since before they came to this world, Thenvunin enthuses and Uthvir is happy for a long while afterwards. The same thing happens again when they bring him a new bird.

And, kissing Uthvir is a good way to make them happy, too. Particularly if it is done as a greeting, with a warm brush of affection alongside it. The first time Thenvunin realizes that his sudden increase of warm, bubbly feelings is owed to the  _bond,_  he nearly tears up.

It is just…

Very  _simple_  things make Uthvir happy. Lunch makes Uthvir happy. Kisses make Uthvir happy. Tiny signs of affection, and jobs well done, and gifts that are well-received, holding hands… Thenvunin feels, for a few weeks after the rush of discovery, as if he is getting addicted to the sensation of a Happy Uthvir.

It flusters him. It is… it is  _very sweet,_  and he has no idea how to articulate the effect it has on him without making Uthvir self-conscious of it. Or drawing too much attention to it, for that matter. He does not think they are letting it through on purpose. Usually the only times when he gets the impression that they are doing things  _purposefully_  with their bond is when… well. When they are making love.

Thenvunin does not mind it. In fact, he is very glad that they are actually exploring things, and letting them do it at their own pace seems like the best thing.

But he feels like he is going to burst from not talking about it, too. From having to resist the urge to rush over to them and, and… do  _something_  whenever he feels that little puff of pleasant sensation swell through their bond. Sometimes it is too much anyway, and he has to go over to them and touch them. Not ardently, not always. But he finds that resting a hand on their shoulder, or kissing their cheek, or leaning against their shoulder can at once settle the feeling, and also amplify it.

Because… Uthvir is almost always made even happier when he does such things, too.

“You have been awfully affectionate lately,” they note, on one such occasion. They had been reading on the couch – recreationally, for a change, and not something to do with their duties – and Thenvunin had sat down next to them. And he had felt it. That puff of happiness, which in turn had him scooting closer, until he was right at their side. They are in their plainclothes, simple leggings and a darker tunic from Thenvunin’s closet, overtop of one of their fitted undershirts.

Thenvunin hesitates.

Uthvir pulls him closer, though, and presses a kiss to the top of his head. One hand still holding their book.

“I hardly mind,” they assure him. “But is anything the matter?”

Worry is another common emotion that makes it through the bond, Thenuvnin has found. He likes it much less than happiness. It itches at the back of his ribs, and it feels… deeper, somehow. Like it is connected to some vast well, beyond what any tentative explorations of their connection might permit.

It is depressing – but he supposes, not surprising – to think that Uthvir has much more fear in them than happiness.

“Nothing is the matter,” he promises, which is true enough. He musters a shrug, and settles in more comfortably. “I am just very… I just, I suppose I am having one of those clingy phases.”

He allows for the latter possibility with great reluctance, a twinge of unpleasant self-consciousness worming into him.  _Clingy._  Uthvir has never called him that, but Thenvunin is well aware that he can be.  _Reasonably invested in the relationship,_  he would have called it once upon a time. But on the other hand, there are days when a spade is a spade.

Uthvir kisses the top of his head again, and brushes a hand up and down his shoulder.

“Cuddly, more like,” they say, in a tone that is only a little teasing. Thenvunin relaxes at their obvious lack of annoyance. They encourage him with a few more brushes of their hand, before they turn back to their book. Outside, rain patters against the garden flagstones, and sluices down the gutters. After a few minutes, the warm feeling begins to return. Thenvunin closes his eyes, and lets himself sink into it. Slumping down against Uthvir physically as well, just gently drifting into a wonderfully reassuring sort of contentment.

Time falls away.

When he rises out of it again, his head is in Uthvir’s lap, and his arms around their hips. Their fingers are trailing through his hair, and pause only when they must lift their hand up to turn a page. It feels as if he has just woken from a nap, but Thenvunin is sure he hadn’t fallen asleep.

He shifts a little, and finds that Uthvir’s leggings have slipped down enough, and their tunic askew enough, to expose a little strip of skin just at the top of their hip. Thenvunin’s nose brushes it accidentally, but a moment later, he presses his lips to it quite intentionally. Smooth and warm, and soft. Uthvir shifts and sinks their fingers a little more fully into his hair, and the languid, comfortable intimacy shifts as well, to accommodate other possibilities. They sit their book down on the arm of the couch, as Thenvunin breathes in the scent of them, and their fingers curl behind one of his ears.

“Are those kisses of yours headed anywhere in particular?” they ask him. Their voice is low and relaxed.

Thenvunin sighs against them.

“I want to make love,” he admits, quietly. It is getting much easier to make such admissions. Though, he still finds that it goes best if he all but whispers them; as if he is willing to let  _Uthvir_  know, but some part of him is still petrified of the thought of behind overheard. Even though they are alone in their rooms, and if anyone were to even attempt to intrude, Uthvir would surely detect them.

The admission makes Uthvir happy, though.

Happy and aroused.

They trace a single, sharp nail across the back of one of his ears.

“We can do that,” they agree, imitating his own low, secretive tones. “On the couch?”

Thenvunin considers it for a moment, but then he shakes his head.

“Your room?” he suggests, sliding a hand up under the tunic they have stolen from him. Such a dastardly heart, he has. He swallows, and then moves up a little. Close enough to kiss their lips, as his grip tightens in their undershirt. Their gaze is heated, now.

“The window seat,” he suggests. It is a good spot, and they will be able to hear the rain from it. Watch the water through the gauzy curtains.

Uthvir leans in, and kisses him. Softly, at the outset. Before they worry his bottom lip between the points of their teeth, and pull a shiver from him.

“What wonderful ideas you have,” they murmur. Thenvunin sits up a little more, but he scarcely gets anywhere before Uthvir twists, and slides an arm under him, and with much more fluidity than anyone should manage, they scoop him up and rise from the couch with him. His heart skips and his blood heats. A reflexive sounds of complaint slips out of him – Uthvir is  _showing off,_  of course, and he likes it, but  _really._

They are just going down the hall.

And Uthvir does not have to look so  _smug_ , even if they are ridiculously graceful and strong and even if they do have his number quite well by now.

“You are incorrigible,” he accuses. He has a good angle for playing with their hair now, though. And so he does, sliding a hand up their cheek, and then into the perilously soft locks. Uthvir’s steps waver just a little as his nails brush across their scalp.

Then they wink at him.

“And who encourages me?” they counter. Another little puff of happiness robs Thenvunin of his better senses for a moment.

“I do,” he whispers, as his cheeks heat.

Truth be told… he is so very grateful that he can.

 

~

 

There is little Uthvir can do to protect Thenvunin from Andruil.

But times when she is away from the palace are typically a little easier to breathe in. Even if she is only gone for a few days – even if she takes Uthvir along with them.

Or so they had thought. They had made a few  _points_  among the other high-ranking and mid-ranking hunters, that whilst they could not free Thenvunin from his ‘duties’, they expected his  _foremost duty_  as Lavellan’s caretaker to be undisturbed. They expected, if nothing else, for Thenvunin’s lack of experience in his ‘field’ to be respected. And that they would personally ensure that ignoring their warnings would be  _dire._

But, the point of the warnings was, ideally, to keep the others away from Thenvunin and Lavellan whenever Uthvir’s own duties might take them away.

They return from a four day hunting expedition, to a courtyard bereft of any familiar locks of flowing blond hair, or tiny little faces peeping solemnly at them from over broad shoulders. Andruil is well-satisfied with this week’s catch, and in high spirits. The good kind of high spirits; the sort that means she is looking more for wine and stories than victims and bloodsport. Another up-and-coming hunter who accompanied them on the trip has caught her attention; Uthvir attends their duties, sees to it that the spoils of their hunt are to be appropriately prepared, and then makes for their chambers.

One of the younger hunters, Sathan, meets them halfway.

“If you are looking for your daughter, Esteemed Hunter, I just saw her out in the far gardens with Vigor.”

Uthvir pauses. Vigor is a more or less decent sort. Occasionally employed with training and teaching, but Lavellan is still too young for lessons on marksmanship or acrobatics. Still, Vigor is the type to adore children – they also tend to many of Andruil’s…  _pets._  And, so far as Uthvir knows, they have none done so cruelly.

Lavellan is likely fine.

On the other hand…

“And where is Thenvunin? With them?” they ask, the second question slipping out of them, as if voicing it out loud will increase the likelihood of it being true.

Sathan hesitates, just a little.

“No, ah… I think he is attending to other duties. Right now. You may want to steer clear of your chambers – or look into getting him his own, for… such… things…”

Uthvir is already striding down the hall before Sathan can finish.  _Should have asked who was with him,_  they realize, but a moment too late to bother. They move quickly, ducking through two shortcuts, ignoring one of the servants they startle until they reach the door to their chambers. The securities are still on, but one of their protection wards on the doorframe is gleaming red.

Injury.

Uthvir enters their chambers, and closes the door swiftly behind them. Their head is filled with the odd, disconnected blanket that comes when Fear is too high. When they can feel every beat of their own heart, and every scent and sense, sight and sound is clearer than it should be. But all in a focused way, as happens when Fear is not  _overwhelming_  them. They are in harmony; the rest of Uthvir is intent and in agreement with the spirit on what to do.

It can actually be a very powerful state of being. But somehow, they have never been in a situation to actually appreciate it.

The sound of flesh striking flesh, of grunts and creaking bedposts, drifts up from Thenvunin’s room.

Uthvir does not quite recollect heading down the hall. They simply arrive. The door is closed; of course it is closed, if Vigor had returned with Lavellan, Thenvunin would never chance being caught. They should not be able to hear anything. But at the moment, they do. A gesture and door opens, banging against the wall with a clatter that disrupts the assault going on in the middle of the room.

Liurven. That is who is on top of Thenvunin. High-ranking, but not a proper hunter. He is one of the palace managers, appointed about a hundred years ago – after Uthvir had established themselves well enough to avoid most unwanted attentions. They feel a vicious anger towards themselves. They had focused on the hunters, on those they  _knew_  to be dangerous. But there are predators in all quarters of life, and Liurven would likely not have gotten the full breadth of Uthvir’s warning.

He is a tall elf. Blond, too.

His hands are on Thenvunin’s neck. By the looks of things, his grip has let up somewhat, and his expression is one of anger at the interruption.

“This is not an open party,” he snaps at them. “Come back in an hour.”

He looks angry and entitled right up until the point when Uthvir sinks their claws into his throat, and rips him off of Thenvunin.

The warning did not do. An example is the next step.

Liurven is not accustomed to combat. He screams very loudly when Uthvir’s claws rip through his throat, as they fling him into the bedroom wall. Blood flies and shocked terror fills up the room. Replacing the ugly notes of lust; colliding with the brittle, broken sort of fear that is still lingering around Thenvunin, where he lies on the bed. Uthvir lets the fear rush into them, as they ignite the blood on their claw tips, and the blood spattered onto the wall and floor. Black fire races up to the wounds on Liurven’s neck. He gasps and clutches at them. His own magic fizzles; like hopeless embers in the rain.

“What… have, have you gone  _mad?”_  he gasps.

“What made you think you could come into my chambers, and hurt the father of my child?” Uthvir demands. “Did you imagine there would not be consequences?”

Panic escapes Liurven. There is blood on his prick; Uthvir ignites that, too, and the man  _screams_  and doubles over. Clutching at himself. They grasp the back of his neck, and lift him again, and slam him face first against the wall. Hard enough to make the room shake.

“It was jus – just –  _please,_  Uthvir, he likes it rough, he’s a whore it’s his duty –”

“Bad approach,” they declare, and draw a knife from their belt. Liurven screams again as they slice off both of his ears, and then move southwards, to other  _sensitive_  areas. Ones which have caused more offense. They do not remove them – they don’t want the man bleeding badly enough that they need to help him to the healers’. But they make their point, and by the time they fling him from their chambers, Liurven is a bloodied mess.

Andruil might object to their handling of the situation. Uthvir will cross that bridge when they come to it; she does not generally favour Liurven’s type. And Uthvir can always claim that the retribution was for undue damage to Andruil’s own property. They can even lie about the entire incident, if need be. A few spirits owe them favours.

Those consequences are more distant, anyway, than more pressing matters.

They head back to the bedroom to find the bed empty. There are a few bloodstains on the sheet. Far more on the walls and floor, but that was Liurven, and most of it is still smoking. Uthvir spies the bathroom door, slightly ajar. They head for it, and then pause; and then they strip off their bloodied gauntlets, and after a second more of thought, take off their pauldrons and spiked shinguards, too. They leave them by the bathroom door, as they carefully push it open.

The water is not running.

Thenvunin is leaning against one of the walls instead. Shaking.

Uthvir sees bruises on his arms, and his thighs. His hair disguises a great deal, as his back is too the wall. No lash marks, and they cannot see any blood on him. But then know he is hurt. His shoulders tremble, and his breaths sound broken.

“Thenvunin,” they say. Gently as they can.

He sniffs. Curses, and moves to wipe at his face.

Uthvir hesitates. Again. They doubt he wants them so near. He probably does not want anyone so near right now – least of all a hunter.

“I can give you a few moments,” they offer. “But if you are hurt, I should heal you. If we get it over with, you can have all the time you need afterwards.”

Thenvunin’s answer is a sob. He tips forward. Resting his brow against the wall, and wrapping his arms around himself. Uthvir averts their gaze, just enough to keep him in their peripheral vision, and gives him the offered moment. They could find a proper healer. That might be preferable; or it might be much worse. They are on the verge of asking, when Thenvunin finally speaks.

“…Alright,” he says.

Just barely. The word sounds hollow, but, they can hardly demand more. There is something sinkingly awful about a Thenvunin so meek, and bereft of his usual bluster and accusations, though. They think so every time they see it.

Stepping into the bathroom, they shut the door behind themselves, and take care to make some noise as they walk over to him. They coax him away from the wall and over towards the bath, and check over the visible damage first. Bruises on his wrists and throat, his arms; knuckle-shaped marks on his chest and stomach. One looks particularly bad. They take care healing it, feeling for damage that goes deeper. It seems to just be a nasty bruise, though. His genitals look ungently handled, too. Uthvir murmurs an apology, as they brush their fingers over the sensitive skin, and ease away that damage. Thenvunin turns his head as he reacts somewhat to the touch. Uthvir can only think to pat his leg reassuringly, and give him another moment before they look at him again.

“Lie down?” they suggest. Doing their best to put the emphasis of  _suggestion_  into the air around them.

Thenvunin’s throat bobs as he swallows. His face his covered in tear tracks. A few more leak out, as his legs tremble.

Uthvir catches him before they give out.

“It was not me,” Thenvunin sobs. “I did not let him touch me. He thought he was, but he wasn’t. Because it is not me. It is not mine.”

The words don’t make any sense, but the sense of pain around them does not need to be elaborated on. And Uthvir can remember some of the gibberish that has flown out of them, at times like these. They need to get it over with, they think, as gently as they can, and then deal with everything else. But it is no good if they just do more damage in the process of trying to heal. They let Thenvunin slump against them. Somewhat surprised when his arms close tightly around their shoulders, rather than shoving them away.

“You did very well,” they say. “You were very strong. He is gone, now. I hurt him very badly and sent him away.”

“Did you kill him?” Thenvunin asks, faintly.

“No,” Uthvir admits. Not certain if he would find that more relieving or disheartening right now. He slumps further, and they think that even he might not know for certain. Uthvir wonders at the fact that they have not been shoved away yet. If it were them… but, then. Thenvunin has always had his own reactions to things.

They let him stay as he is for a few moments more. Until his sobbing goes down again, and he starts trying to bat his cheeks dry. They grab a hand towel for him, and after a moment, ease him onto the warmed tiles next to the bath.

Thenvunin curls in on himself as they check him, then, and find that yes, he has been torn. They know the spells for that type of injury quite well, but they must be carefully done, and that takes some time. They only have to touch him a little to get the magic going, though. And when they venture a stroke to his lower back, it actually seems to help ease seem of the awful tension in him.

They rub circles into his skin with their free hand, as they cast with their other, and watch the damage slowly close. Sealing the wounds against infection, and letting the magic spread further in, just in case. It tingles, they know. Not terribly pleasant or unpleasant, but after a point, Thenvunin lets out a sob that seems relieved despite itself.

When they are done, Uthvir helps him into the bath.

Thenvunin stares at the water for a moment. His eyes have gone dry. There is a bite mark on one of his ears that they failed to notice. Uthvir reaches for it, biting back their sudden rush of  _anger_  at it. A complex anger, tinged with self-hatred. They have surely left similar marks on Thenvunin themselves, and it twists at them, the ugly mockery of it.

Some if it slips out.

Thenvunin clenches his eyes shut.

They waver. His emotions wrap too tightly around him for them to read. But after a moment, they just cast a basic healing spell. Enough to close the split skin, and ease the pain. Their backs of their fingers brush the top of his ear. They cannot quite keep themselves from brushing away some of the tearstains at the corner of his eyes, too. Just briefly, before they pull back again.

After a moment, Thenvunin opens his eyes again.

He does not seem quite able to look at them.

“…Will you get in trouble, for that?” he asks, after a moment. Still sitting rigidly in the bath. Unscented water steaming around him.

“No,” Uthvir says, assuredly. “Andruil has little time for Liurven’s ilk. And she is very pleased with the outcome of her hunt, so, she will not be bored enough to go looking for games.” They speak with more certainty than they actually have; but Thenvunin does not need the extra worry right now. And it isn’t a lie, either.

He nods at them. Still distant.

“Does it hurt anywhere else?” they ask, after a moment. Fear is becoming conflicted, now. They want to go and get Lavellan, but they do not want to leave Thenvunin.

Thenvunin shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “…I did not… it was just, just my body reacting. When he… it was not  _me_  it was just…”

“I know,” Uthvir assures him. They venture a hand to his shoulder, and are again surprised when it actually seems to help alleviate some of the tension in his frame. They keep the touch gentle as they might, all the same. “I know what it is like, Thenvunin. I understand. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

He looks at them, at that. Expression unreadable, until it crumples again. Then he covers his face with his hands.

After a while, then, he asks them to leave without entirely  _asking_  them to leave. The request does not come, but Uthvir puts it together from the way he looks at them and shifts and sinks into the bath water. They go, locking the door to their chambers and sealing it behind them. By the time they venture out, the bloodstains are gone from most things. They have to fold away a carpet from the main room, but they have been meaning to replace that one with something better enchanted anyway.

Another quick trek across the palace, and they find Lavellan in the gardens with Vigor.

She toddles up to them straight away, wobbling on unsteady legs and babbling frantically for her Papa.

“I know,” Uthvir assures her. “Let’s go see Papa, hm? He is the bath, though, so we might have to wait for him.”

Lavellan nods eagerly, clutching at their collar, as Vigor sighs.

“It really is amazing, how attached children get to their parents,” they muse.

“Thenvunin is an exemplary father,” Uthvir says.

“Ya, Papa good,” Lavellan agrees, and despite everything, their lips quirk upwards. Her steadfast agreement is as heartening as it is useful. Vigor coos at her a bit, but relents as Uthvir turns and begins carrying her away. Back through the palace halls. Her fingers are tight in their collar, and once they are out of sight, it becomes more obvious that she is very unhappy.

Not a surprise. But a worry – more and more, it seems, it is difficult to make Lavellan happy, here. That cannot be good for such a small person, to be growing with sorrow and worry and grief so easily summoned.

“Pa hurt?” she asks. Lip trembling.

Uthvir rubs reassuringly at her back.

“Papa got a little hurt,” they admit. It is better, they have found, than trying to deny it. “But everything is alright. Now he is just taking a bath. He likes baths, they help him feel better.”

Lavellan nods, still unhappy, and rests her cheek against their shoulder.

They get her back to their rooms. Another check reveals that nothing and no one has even tried to get in during their absence. Lavellan is cooperative when they put her in the nursery, and set her up with some toys to ‘wait for Papa’. Uthvir does not think she is precisely soothed, though, until an hour later, when Thenvunin finally emerges from the bathroom. Wrapped up in a soft robe, with his hair tied back, and his face scrubbed clean.

“Papa!” Lavellan greets him, scooting over to him as hastily as she had rushed towards Uthvir in the garden. Thenvunin sweeps her up and presses a kiss to her cheek, and sighs as wraps her little arms tightly around his neck.

“Oh, my baby,” he says. “Were you worried? I am so sorry, Papa just had to do a job. We can go back to the library again tomorrow, hm? Maybe with Nanae this time, so no one interrupts us.”

Lavellan babbles something unintelligible, little puffs of relief mingling with a few other, less easily described emotions, until she starts to cry. Thenvunin’s own eyes get wet again. Uthvir pretends not to notice, as they keep an eye on things through the open door of their study. They can see into the nursery, from there. But without interrupting anything, as Thenvunin and Lavellan both cling to one another, and attempt to soothe one another.

Eventually, Lavellan falls asleep, while Thenvunin rocks her and hums to her.

When he finally tucks their daughter in, and emerges from the nursery, he seems… subdued.

Injured, still. For all that the damage to his body has been tended to.

His gaze flits towards the door of his room. The corners of his mouth tighten.

“I will clean up in there,” they say. “You can sleep in my room tonight.”

Thenvunin glances towards them. Uncertain. He clasps his hand together in front of himself, and straightens his back a little.

“You don’t have to,” he ventures. “You must be tired, from the hunt…”

Uthvir waves it off.

“It is no trouble,” they assure him. “I will have to go to the feast tonight, anyway, and that will take up most of the evening. You should stay here with Lavellan. I will lock the chamber doors, but in the unlikely case that is not enough, not many hunters will have the gall to enter my bedroom without permission. You still need to recover.”

“I have healed,” Thenvunin points out. But his heart isn’t in it, and Uthvir does not even bother to point out that healed and recovering are not always one and the same.

After a moment, Thenvunin inclines his head, and accepts the offer.

He follows them to their room, a few minutes later. Settling onto their small couch, as Uthvir heads for their closet, and begins picking out a nicer set of armour for the evening’s festivities. They change swiftly, behind a partition. Deftly buckling buckles and tightening straps until the weight of their outfit has settled over them. A hard, reassuring shell, that muffles the raw edge of Fear still pressing at them.

When they emerge again, Thenvunin’s gaze flits over them. Lingering in a way that, under different circumstances, they might read as appreciation. That is not the air which surrounds him at the moment, however.

“Unsuitable?” they ask, glancing down at themselves again. Nothing seems to be out of place. Part of them strangely hopes for one of Thenvunin’s usual jabs, however. A snide remark that nothing about Uthvir’s countenance could be called  _suitable,_  perhaps.

He only shakes his head, however.

“No,” he says. “I just… does it help?”

Uthvir cannot quite intuit his meaning.

“Does what help?” they ask.

Thenvunin glances down towards the floor.

“The armour,” he says. “You always wear it. I used to think… actually, I don’t know what I thought. I can only recollect seeing you wear something different once. During Mythal and Elgar’nan’s anniversary celebrations, a few decades ago. You wore robes.”

Uthvir blinks. Ah, yes. That party. Andruil had amused herself by restricting their clothing options for the event, though, they suspect she had also been forced to acquiesce to some of her mother’s aesthetic demands, too. None of her entourage had been permitted to wear armour or carry weapons. Uthvir had dearly wished to get out of going to the event, but instead they had spent the better part of three days feeling like a raw nerve. Every gaze that landed upon them grating, as even the structured, high-collared robes they had chosen felt too flimsy and fluttery. Particularly for such a public venue.

“I remember that,” they admit. “Your hair had waves in it. It was beautiful.”

Thenvunin blinks rapidly a few times, apparently startled enough to look up at their comment. He shifts in his seat a little, before his gaze skitters away again. But his chin stays up, this time. They have learned to take that as a good sign. It means he is not too worn down to bother trying.

“It was frightful,” he insists. “Straight hair is often preferable, but it was very much the called-for look that season. Mine refused to cooperate. Even you looked more fashionable for that party.”

It is Uthvir’s turn to blink, at that.

“Well, who is speaking of fashion?” they counter. “Whatever trend was on at the moment has long since changed. We are speaking of memories –I remember that you looked particularly beautiful that evening.”

Thenvunin’s throat bobs, as he looks at them for a moment. His expression is, again, difficult to read. But it seems calmer, now. That is the strangeness of terrible things, Uthvir supposes. They happen, and then they pass, and the world expects it to be done with. Erased with wounds healed over. As easy and simple as that.

There is a little white mark on one of Thenvunin’s ears, now. A scar.

They remember Thenvunin’s initial question. He was asking after their armour.

They think they can guess why, now.

“You do not have the rank or duties for proper armour. But if you like, I can find you something heavier. It… helps. In my experience.”

Thenvunin lowers his head. After a moment, he nods.

They will have to work with the restrictions of his duties. Perhaps some kind of harness, for carrying Lavellan. They have heard of such things, though they have never actually seen them. Solid vests, pants with thick, durable fabric – and secure fastenings. Nothing they do can truly stop Andruil’s aims, and trying too hard will only make it worse. But, they can at least ensure that it takes time to try and solicit Thenvunin. Time enough for them to intervene sooner in the future, perhaps.  _Before_  he is hurt again.

…He  _will_  be hurt again.

 _But he will survive it,_  they remind themselves. They will make certain he survives it.

“I have to go,” they conclude, after a moment. “Andruil is waiting. I should be back before morning, but even if I am not, stay here until I get back. And do not answer any knocks. If anyone takes offense at that, I will handle it.”

Thenvunin stares at his hands, and nods again in understanding. His knuckles go white, as he folds his fingers together.

“Be careful,” he says.

“I always am,” Uthvir assures him.

_I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry…_

“I have to go,” they say again. Their legs do not want to move. Hesitating and not hesitating, knowing what they must do and finding it at war with their instincts. It is a strained moment, before they manage to turn towards the bedroom door.

They are not expecting Thenvunin’s hand to close around their wrist.

It stops them again, even though his grip is not tight. He looks at them. All signs of strain on his face. Lingering hurt, and  _fear._  That if they go then someone else will come. No matter what they say. Andruil is scheming, and Thenvunin has learned to fear her creative cruelty.

And Uthvir has no real reassurance against it.

But they  _have_  to go.

They shift their hand, moving their grip so that they are both clasping one another’s wrists for a moment. Thenvunin’s expression shifts, a little. The gesture is a common one of camaraderie, between soldiers on the battlefield. Uthvir has never been part of a war campaign, only a few skirmishes. But they have seen others exchange the gesture before.

It seems to work, as Thenvunin’s grip tightens for a moment, and then releases again. Something in him braces itself, better. And his fear lessens.

“I will do my best to come back before morning,” they promise.

The warmth of Thenvunin’s palm lingers at their wrist, as they finally manage to go.

 

~

 

The little white scar, on the back of Thenvunin’s ear, fades after a hundred years.

Uthvir never mentions it. So far as they know, Thenvunin has never seen it, either. But sometimes they cannot help but press their lips to the place where it used to be. Some lingering effort, they suppose, to ease a hurt that happened in an instant, but left its mark for far longer.

“I am getting  _ready,”_  Thenvunin protests, lightly, as he sits at his vanity, and they press a kiss to the sensitive skin of his ear.

“I know, I know, you have council to attend,” they reply, and let themselves sigh. They nuzzle their nose behind his ear, just for a moment. But they are not really trying to drag him back to bed. The sunlight through the windows had reflected off of some jewellery on the sill, and for a moment, they had seen a light spot on the back tip of his ear. And they had worried, that somehow the scar had come back.

They realized the truth soon enough; but they still needed an excuse to lean in so close like that.

Thenvunin lifts his hand up to theirs, and squeezes it gently.

“As I recall, you have a fair few matters to attend to yourself,” he counters. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking into some complaints from the Arlathan holdings?”

“Hm,” Uthvir confirms, and presses another kiss to him, before finally straightening up again. “I am. I might end up leaving for the city today, depending on what I find.”

Thenvunin frowns a little at that, and turns in his seat.

“Will you be back before evening?” he wonders.

“Possibly not,” they admit. “I will try, though.”

Thenvunin frowns, just a little. But he does not protest. The past year, they have both been even more reluctant to part than usual. Uthvir is mostly convinced that it has something to do with all the odd little changes they have been experiencing, due to Fear’s nature shifting around. Though Fear, of course, has a thousand more theories. Each more dire than the last.

“I will see you at lunch, I suppose. Will you know by then, if you are leaving?” Thenvunin asks. His hand is still on their arm. Uthvir shifts a little and takes it in their own, and presses a kiss to the backs of his knuckles.

“Yes,” they confirm. Resisting the urge to lean back in, and slide their fingers beneath his collar, and press a few more kisses to the side of his neck.  _Stop it,_  they chide themselves. They have other things to do, and they are not even aroused – but perhaps Thenvunin’s own increased proclivity for affection is contagious.

Thenvunin squeezes their hand again. Then he sighs, and lets the go. Shaking his head just a little before he straightens up in front of his mirror.

“If you would like, I can go with you,” he offers. “Meetings are just in the morning, and there is nothing pressing scheduled for the afternoon. I haven’t been back in Arlathan for a while. It might be a nice change of pace.”

Uthvir considers, and after a moment, inclines their head.

“Perhaps,” they agree. “It will depend on the sensitivity of the investigation. Let me find out more, and then we can decide things at lunch.”

Thenvunin nods in acceptance.

It would not be so bad, they think, to make something of a trip out of it. Mana’Din’s Arlathan estate is by far the most ‘fashionable’ of her holdings, but it is still located slightly outside of the main city boundaries. And it has been a while since Thenvunin could make a proper Arlathan shopping trip. Despite his lingering reservations about the city, and mixed feelings that can come up when they run into familiar faces, Thenvunin does adore those.

They pull themselves away at last, to finish getting ready. Heading back towards their own room, to fetch the outer pieces of their armour, and tie up their hair.

They really should cut it again.

At some point. There is no real hurry, either, they suppose.

They are ready before Thenvunin has finished putting on his finery. They call their farewell to him, and then take away the breakfast tray that they had fetched earlier, to leave it by the kitchens on their way to their office. A few agents intercept them in the corridors, but none with particularly pressing matters. There are some concerns over security management for a scheduled inspection from Mythal’s peacekeepers – not in Daran, but rather along the border with Dirthamen’s territories. And some of the city wards are coming up for their renewal times, which always seems to make the residents nervous.

Uthvir can think of several reasons why it might. Any or all of them often seem to come into play. But renewals are always scheduled months, if not a few years, before they would  _actually_  be required. And despite rumours coming out of some of the other corners of the territory, Mana’Din has professed no interest in using sacrifices to expedite the process. Every five years or so, however, the same anxious whispers begin to crop up. That the current programs are unsustainable; that the other shoe is finally going to drop.

Uthvir cannot blame people for their insecurity on this front. The entire rest of the empire makes much more broad allowances for sacrifice, and whilst Mana’Din’s continued stalemates and conflicts with the other leaders are caused in large part by her reluctance to adhere to imperial standards, the existence  _of_  such tensions would also provide ample excuse for exploiting more…  _traditional_  resources. To secure the territories, of course.

So whether the rumours are simply a natural result of social tensions, or whether they are being manufactured and spread by a particular group, is not something Uthvir has been able to pin down as yet.

And then, of course, there is the day’s more pressing matter of complaints from the Arlathan estate.

Those tend to crop up with a fair amount of regularity, too.

The Arlathan estate is, of course, heavily influenced by Arlathan itself. Most of the permanent or semi-permanent residents are former followers of other evanuris. There are three estate managers, a primary manager who oversees the broad strokes of estate matters, a staff manager who is responsible for dividing labour and tasks among the estate servants, and a resource manager who ensures that the estate is properly stocked and budgeted. In the early days, when the estate was being rebuilt, all three posts were held by loaned subjects of Sylaise’s. But after the grounds were finally deemed up to sufficient city standards, Sylaise and June withdrew their workers. The estate then saw a large turnover rate as various managers proved ill-suited to their authority.

Arlathan attitudes, of course, are often not in-keeping with those of Mana’Din’s territories. Infractions that would hardly have merited a slap on the wrist under Andruil’s service are more than enough to merit extensive disciplinary action under Mana’Din’s rule. The trouble with the Arlathan estate, of course, is that the ‘solution’ which many high-ranking elves happen upon is to simply keep complaints or transgressions from being reported.

About fifty years ago, Uthvir began attempting to counter this trend by installing a couple of agents among the ranks of the estate servants. It is not what they consider a  _safe_  post, but dangers tend to be inconsistent and the job requires a keen eye for reading people and situations. And there are no safe posts in this line of work, truth be told. So it is a job which many apprentices end up taking on, provided they have a suitable disposition for it.

But of course, that makes it imperative that Uthvir respond quickly when the reports turn sour. Agents in trouble is one thing, but if the estate’s agents are concerned, then likely matters are even worse for the  _actual_  servants.

Uthvir has barely gotten into the meat of their reports however before they stop. Staring at one page, before getting back up from their desk, and sending a runner to the archives to retrieve the trade records for persons exchanged between Andruil’s territories and Mana’Din’s. They already have the estate employment records on hand, having planned for this review the night before. While the apprentice goes to get the necessary records, Uthvir looks up the name which had given them such pause.

Liurven.

According to estate records, an elf by that name was appointed to the position of Estate Resource Manager two years ago. The former resource manager had, for once, not been removed due to scandal or abuses, but rather had been granted a request for parental leave. Liurven’s promotion was only meant to last twenty years, until the previous manager’s leave was up. So only a temporary posting – but a potentially wise career move, in terms of potentially adding to one’s roster of skills and commendations.

Uthvir finds they cannot commend this Liurven’s cleverness, however. Not when the name is grating down their nerves like a nail file. They cannot find any conclusive information on the elf’s origins in the estate records. Just a previous posting with the estate as someone who oversaw storage matters, and a footnote indicating that Liurven had requested an Arlathan assignment, and had been living in a settlement called Talathvan before then. Uthvir does not recognize the name, but the symbol written over it indicates it is in Mana’Din’s territories. Probably one of the outlying settlements, located apart from the borders that make up the bulk of Mana’Din’s territories, then.

A quick check to the territory maps confirms their suspicion. Talathvan is part of a small strip of territory which is all but islanded in Dirthamen’s domain. Most minor regions like that were absorbed by the other leaders after Falon’Din’s fall in this world, but Dirthamen chose to cede the ones in his own territory to his daughter, with only a few exceptions.

The  _could_  imply that this Liurven was a trade from Dirthamen’s ranks. In which case, they are probably not the man that Uthvir is thinking of.

But, that is far from a guarantee. Followers were moved all over the place during the early days of Mana’Din’s ascension. Uthvir has looked at the records – they are messes of lines and back-and-forth and loans and trades and emancipation. They had actually looked for key names among those individuals traded to Mana’Din from Andruil, but it is not impossible that a few slipped through the cracks. They had mostly focused on the records of those living in Arlathan and the main territories; if Liurven was in Talathvan, they may well have never come across his name.

They are attempting to remind themselves that it is also still not impossible for the name to be an coincidence, when the apprentice they had sent off returns with the requested files.

In hindsight, Uthvir probably should have just gone through these centuries ago. But back when they had first started to make an accounting of Andruil’s transferred followers, they had not possessed the rank. And once they possessed the rank, they had not thought to go back to it.

Negligent of them.

They will do it now, they decide. Or, rather, they will do it once the estate inquiries are completed. For the time being, they only set themselves to trying to find Liurven’s name and records.

It is a strange moment, when they do.

On the one hand, having someone of Liurven’s inclinations attain rank and influence among Mana’Din’s followers is a black mark on all of them, to be certain. But on the other hand, Uthvir had never actually been able to ruin the man’s life in another world.

As they examine his records, and confirm his history, however, it strikes them that they are now in a position to do just that. They are investigating the man. Newly appointed to his rank, from a middling station – whilst Uthvir is established and influential, and also no longer contending with a Leader who is set upon playing sadistic games of cat-and-mouse with their personal relationships.

Of course, this Liurven is not the same as the other. This one has never touched Thenvunin.

Uthvir carefully sets aside the records, and returns to the reports. Under the circumstances, they have no trouble taking all of it at face value, as they go through various accounts of harassment, boundary violations, and mistreatment. Few are sexual in nature, but many of them  _allude_  to a sexual element, when they read between the lines. The agent who filed the report is more concerned with the Estate Staff Manager’s efforts to hush up the complaints, and Uthvir can agree,  _that_  is also an issue of great concern.

They finish reading, and deal with a few more matters, as they carefully turn the situation over in their mind.

It feels almost like it did, years and years ago, when they hard returned from a hunt with Andruil to damning sounds ringing through their chambers. The icy focus of it. Horribly and sinking, disconnected but sharp, too. They have to do this right. In this instance, they find they are very interested in taking out the actions of an alternate-reality counterpart on the nearest available target.

Not least for the catharsis. But also because, well…

Why not? It hardly seems as if the man is much better here than he was there. He may not have touched Thenvunin, but doubtless he has harmed  _someone_.

By the time they have finished with what paperwork they can handle from their end, it is just an hour away from lunch. Uthvir decides to return the trade records to the archives themselves, and stops by Elalas’ offices on their way back. As luck would have it, the woman actually seems to be using them for a change; writing a missive at her Advisorial desk.

“Valid harassment and sexual assault reports have come in from Arlathan,” they say, not bothering with preamble. “Enacted by the new Resource Manager and abetted by the current Staff Manager. Mana’Din will likely want to handle the Staff Manager herself, they have held their posting for a few decades now. But the Resource Manager was only appointed temporarily while the post’s permanent holder is on parental leave. I want to take care of them myself.”

Elalas looks up at them, and frowns slightly.

“That would be for Mana’Din to decide,” she notes.

Uthvir inclines their head.

“I know. After lunch, I am heading for Arlathan to remove the man, to at least halt the damage he has been doing. I do not have time to track down our illustrious leader – I was wondering if you would do me the courtesy of putting in the request on my behalf?”

Elalas purses her lips.

“Ask her at lunch yourself,” she suggests. “She usually eats in the same place.”

“I am having lunch with Thenerassan,” Uthvir counters.

This merits an eye roll.

“That makes the request rather frivolous,” Elalas points out, before she turns back to her parchment.

Uthvir waves a hand dismissively.

“Frivolous? Fair enough. I suppose there are no favours you wish to ask me for in return, then?”

Elalas declines to look up, all though her mouth does twist in a telling way.

With a shrug, Uthvir heads back towards her door. They only get halfway there before she sighs.

“Fine,” she says. “I will present your request to Mana’Din. Why you keep getting  _me_  to ask her for things remains an overall mystery, but I will do it in exchange for you keeping your agents out of Sheren’tal’s docks for the rest of the week.”

The turn back slightly, and raise an eyebrow.

“Smuggling something?” they ask.

Elalas glances at them flatly, and then back down again.

“Alright,” they agree. Sheren’tal is a river settlement. Not well-situated for any kind of invasion – but fairly convenient for anyone fleeing the territory to the Nameless. There is an unspoken rule on Mana’Din’s part that such attempts are generally to be ignored anyway. Though Uthvir knows that Elalas does not always have firm faith in that.

They make a mental note to remove their agents from the docks, but also to ensure that they have plenty of eyes in the rest of the city. Just in case.

They meet Thenvunin for lunch at their chambers, arriving with food to hear the sounds of him changing in his room. And humming to his birds, by the sounds of it; he probably let them in through the window again. Uthvir sets the table and takes off their gauntlets, and lets out a breath. Trying to regain their equilibrium. It works better than they might have guessed, under the circumstances.

Liurven’s transgressions happened long ago, and a world away. Much as Uthvir would like to repay him further for them, they realize after a moment that they are not afraid. They are irritated that he has managed to get so far before they noticed him, and they are frustrated that he has probably perpetuated his mistreatment on others along the way. But he is not a risk. He will never lay hands on Thenvunin again.

… _This_  Thenvunin, anyway.

They frown as they consider the fact that there is another. And he is imminently more susceptible to these things, given his own circumstances. Being a high-ranking elf in service of Mythal is better than most might hope for. But, as their own Thenvunin’s history illustrates, it is not an entirely unassailable position.

Liurven will have to be removed from the equations altogether.

“What are you brooding about?” Thenvunin asks, as he emerges. He has changed into his robes; the new outfit would be fit for travel, but also suitable just for an afternoon running errands around the city.

“Work,” Uthvir asserts. Thenvunin slides into the seat across from them, and looks interested.

“Are the reports bad, then?” he wonders.

“Terrible,” they confirm, taking a moment to sip some of the light wine they brought. “I must ask you not to come. I will be busy untangling this mess until evening, at least.”

Thenvunin looks disappointed, though he tries to hide it. Uthvir makes a mental note to go with him to the city at some point in the near future anyway. They do not  _always_  need an excuse, after all.

“Sensitive matters?” he guesses.

They incline their head.

After a moment, Thenvunin squares his shoulders.

“Well, I suppose there is little to be done but to clean it up, in that case,” he says. His brow furrows a little, as he cuts into his meat pie. “Are you certain you do not want me to come along, just the same? If it is abuses… you should not have to deal with all of that on your own. It might remind you of things.”

Uthvir pauses for a moment, surprised. They almost laugh. It  _does_  remind them of things, of course. But ones that they would rather endure themselves a hundred times over than further subject Thenvunin to. Not that they mean to underestimate him. He would be able to handle Liurven now, they know. But it would hurt him to see that worm again. After all, he was the one attacked, and the one injured. Violated. Uthvir’s own pain is almost entirely owed to their failure to stop it – a minor wound, by comparison.

They let out a breath, though.

“It will be alright,” they say. “But I will try and get home before morning.”

It reminds them of that night, as soon as they say it. They had spent hours at Andruil’s feast. Highstrung, unable to keep from feeling like leaving had simply left Thenvunin vulnerable to yet more abuses, even with their security measures in place. Andruil had remarked upon the report from the healers, of Uthvir injuring ‘some manager or other’. Uthvir had played it off as outrage over having their chambers infringed upon. She had not entirely believed it, of course, but that evening she had been more amused by the violence than offended by their attachments.

They  _had_  gotten back before morning. Just barely. Thenvunin had been in their bed, tucked up with Lavellan sleeping against his chest. Uthvir had settled into a chair in the corner of the room, and stayed there until he woke.

They get out of their chair, once lunch is done with. An uncommonly subdued meal. Their gaze slips to his unscarred ear again, and they press a kiss there. Cupping his cheek with one hand.

“I might slide into bed with you, when I get back,” they say. Warning and request in one.

Thenvunin inclines his head.

“Of course,” he agrees.

They will need to check, they think. To hold him close and feel his heartbeat. Feel his skin. Touch him wherever they can, and hear his voice tremble with pleasure and desire, rather than fear or pain. They will tear Liurven apart, thoroughly this time, and then they will come home, and they will do their best to reassure themselves and to make Thenvunin feel very,  _very_  good.

It is all they can do, about the past.

Make sure it is better going forward.


	19. Chapter 19

Thenvunin tries not to worry too much about Uthvir, when they leave for Arlathan.

He cannot completely manage it, though. Uthvir always navigates Arlathan well. They have never had any of the meltdowns that have occasionally afflicted him, have never lost their composure or been forced to exit some shop or avoid certain buildings. It has been a long time since even Thenvunin has suffered such moments.

But whenever they go to Arlathan, it bothers them. Thenvunin can tell. They come back tense, and usually quiet. Prone to odd moods. Closed-in, in a way that, when he thinks about it, is possibly something he has only begun to notice because they are  _not_  like that in Daran. Most of the time, anyway. Going to Arlathan puts Uthvir back in their armour, in more ways than one, and though Thenvunin has never mentioned it to them – and he is not certain if they themselves are entirely aware of it – it usually takes a few weeks, at least, before they are back to normal again. Especially if they are  _investigating_  something.

Keeping his focus on his tasks throughout the day is a challenge. But, in the end, not an insurmountable one. He worries, but he also reminds himself that if Uthvir comes back to find  _him_  out-of-sorts, then they are going to feel badly and get caught up in their own worry, and probably also think that something has happened to him. Arlathan is far enough away that, at least, nothing will be transferring across their bond.

The bond itself helps. Thenvunin would know if something mortally dangerous was happening to them – so long as he can still feel that certain sense of connection, however distant Uthvir may be, he knows that, at the very least, they are not in great peril.

He finishes his duties for the day. Has dinner in the main hall, with some of Mana’Din’s advisors, and makes small talk about the upcoming Summer Festival. After dinner, he agrees to meet with some of the event planners for drinks and further discussion, and volunteers his garden to host them all. Screecher insists upon spending the better part of the evening sitting on the back of his chair, glaring balefully at the guests and tugging at Thenvunin’s hair, whilst Thenvunin gently dissuades the attempting grooming, and eventually distracts the dear menace with a few treats.

By the time the sun has set, the little after-hours meeting has dispersed, too. There has been no sign of Uthvir, yet. Thenvunin knows that they said they would be late, but… worry is harder to ignore when he has run out of distractions. He checks on all the bird feeders, and returns a book to the archives. And when he gets back, he sets about lighting some soothing incense, so the chambers will smell pleasant and calming. He bathes, and lets similar scents sink into his own skin and hair, and after a moment’s contemplation, opts to climb into bed in the nude.

It is a warm night.

He honestly cannot say whether or not he truly managed to sleep, but he is drifting in a space close to that when he feels the mattress dip. Something in him exhales with relief, as the room fills with the sound of rustling blankets, and he feels some cooler air at his back. And then warmth, as familiar hands slip around him, and pull him close. Uthvir presses a kiss to his shoulder.

Thenvunin turns, murmuring an incoherent welcome as he works his way around so that he can face them instead. His lips search for theirs, as his own arms slip around them. They’re wearing soft clothes. No still armour or spikes, and only a few layers. They still feel a bit distant though, somehow; closed off, or rather, reined-in, as Thenvunin kisses them and they sigh against his lips. Their touch firms somewhat, as they roll him more fully onto his back, and repay the gesture with a kiss that wakes him up more. His mouth tingles with the telltale hint of magic.

He blinks open his eyes. Uthvir looks dark, in the dim light of the bedchamber. Their own gaze is very intent upon him. But their hands are gentle, as they stroke down his sides. Their next kiss is sweet, as they lean in and press it to him. Thenvunin feels the trailing brush of their fingers, and the solid weight of their body against his, but it all still feels  _restrained,_ somehow.

“Uthvir,” he murmurs.

They hum back at him in acknowledgement.

Shifting a little, Thenvunin reaches up and gets his arms around them again. He pulls them close as he can, wrapping one arm around the top of their shoulders, and nearly pressing a hand to their back, before he catches himself. His touch hovers just shy of making contact, instead. Mindful of their scars and how keenly they might be feeling them, as they hold him in turn, and brush their lips gently across his own. The soft strands of their hair brush across his arms.

Thenvunin lets his eyes slide shut, and tries to feel them better.

He is, truthfully, not thinking about the bond. Not  _intending_  to reach for it, but rather, just to close the odd sense of distance between them. When he presses upon that sense of connection, though, he realizes where the odd notion of distance is coming from. Even though Uthvir is in his bed and in his arms, they are cleaving tightly to themselves. Emotions and connections of all sorts shut down, it would seem, in the wake of their trip to Arlathan.

Much as he wants to bridge the gap, he catches himself in time, and stop short of it. Just like his hand, still hovering vaguely in the air, his press for connection stops shy of overstepping.

 _They do not want that right now,_  he tells himself. They mustn’t, either consciously or unconsciously, because otherwise, they would not be so reserved. Their lips still move against his, and their arms still clutch him close, though. The kind of closeness that they  _do_ want is one he can provide them with, if nothing else. He lets his free hand finally come to rest against their shoulder, and lets himself move into their own touches.

At length, their kisses slip to his jaw, and his neck. The usual nips and teasing presses of teeth, of nails, do not come, however. Their nails turn blunt as they brush their fingers against the back of his neck. It is embarrassing, really, how his body responds to the feel of Uthvir’s fingertips now. How it makes the blood in him rush south, as his loins stir, and his hips twitch. They know it, too, and ordinarily he would expect their lips to be curving by now. Smirking at the effect such a little, teasing gesture can have.

But that smirk does not come. Their fingers brush against the back of his neck, up towards his hairline, and realization creeps over Thenvunin.

_Oh._

He has seen them act like this before, of course. It has been a fair few years, but he recognizes the signs, now. The soft touches and the careful reservation, the gentleness… they must have run into someone in Arlathan. Someone who hurt  _him,_  rather than someone who hurt Uthvir. Or perhaps someone who hurt both of them, back in the other world.

Thenvunin swallows, as Uthvir presses kisses behind one of his ears.

He wonders who…?

But he tamps down on that line of thinking before it can get too far. No, it does not matter ‘who’. Not right now. That conversation can wait for morning. He does not want to venture towards such memories right now, does not want to dig up old demons. It has taken time for him to be able to decide whether he wants to or not, to halt his own thoughts before they go spiralling down that path. But he can, now, and he appreciates the ability, as he carefully packs away that information, and instead focuses on the feel of Uthvir’s touch. The wet heat of their kisses, and the weight of their body against his.

Their clothes seem an unconscionable barrier.

Thenvunin ventures his own fingers towards the fastenings for their outer shirt. When Uthvir makes no sign of protest, he starts to loosen them, and after a little doing, they obligingly wriggle out of it and toss it down to the side of the bed. The shirt beneath is much more loose, and looser still when Thenvunin undoes the ties on  _it,_  too. Though at that, Uthvir only lets the widened collar slide down their shoulders a little, before gently pressing his hands back.

They rub their thumbs gently across his wrists, and kiss him.

Thenvunin relents, easily. Going lax in their hold, and resisting the urge to buck his hips against them, as the blankets and their weight all press against his arousal. He does not have to wait for very long before they are moving again, though. Their lips slide away from his own, and in their breath ghosts across his skin, before they let go of his wrists, and instead draw their fingers down the length of his chest. They push the blankets down enough to expose him, and settle on top of his thighs. His erection presses up against their clothed crotch. He bites his bottom lip as they take him in hand, and let their own hips slant forwards a little. Trapping him between the different textures of soft fabric and skin.

He can feel the intent of their gaze. Fixated upon him, as they touch him. The usual bevy of lewd compliments do not escape them, tonight. Their strokes are slow but heated. Magic skirts at the edges of their touch. As careful and focused as they are, heightening his feelings, but not to the point of overwhelming him.

No, it is the rest of it that overwhelms him, he thinks, as he grips the sheets and tips his head back, and feels his heart speed up. His pulse racing, his breaths matching the slow, up-and-down strokes of Uthvir’s hand, as his body responds to their touch, and his chest aches with his restraint. That bruised feeling that seems to come, now, when they are so very close but they are not being  _close._  Thenvunin comes with a gasp, and when Uthvir does not reach for their bond, he cannot help but do it himself. Sending some of that sensation out towards them.

He regrets it for an instant, an apology lurking in his throat even as his skin tingles, and his breaths come too ragged to offer it. His seed has spilled across his stomach, and their leggings. But before he can worry too much, they respond. Tentatively. Their reach back across the bond feels fragile, and it makes Thenvunin lift his arms and pull them back to him in return. Suffusing the air with affection, and the bond with reassurance, as he offers physical comfort for whatever has distressed them so.

They are rigid for a moment.

And then they melt against him. In all ways. They rest their cheek upon his shoulder, and their hands against his chest. Their love is soothing and soothed, as it spreads into the air between them. Guilt sinks into their bond. Old and familiar, a well-worn sort of remorse that time has eased, but never cured. Thenvunin grasps for a nearby cushion, and tries to soften everything, as best he can. Helping to settle them into the bed with him, as the edge of desire cools a little, and his own worries grow.

He sinks his fingers into their hair, and brushes some of the loose strands back.

“What happened?” he asks. His voice is barely more than a whisper in the dark.

Uthvir sighs.

“A familiar face,” they confirm.

Thenvunin’s free hand settles onto their shoulder. The tips of his fingers brush the bare edges of their scars, until they shift a little, and he retracts the touch.

“I am sorry, dear heart,” he whispers. “I did not mean to-”

“No, no,” Uthvir assures him. “It is fine, I only… I am out of sorts, it would seem.”

They press a kiss to his collar, and then he hears them swallow. Something damp brushes the side of his neck. Near to where their eyes are. He shifts his hand from their hair, and cannot help the soft sound of protest that escapes him when they turn their head further toward the pillows, in turn. It is rare for Uthvir to shed tears, and Thenvunin always feels helpless when they do.

“You do not have to comfort me,” they say. “I should be…”

He hushes them before they can carry on with that, and with a little maneuvering, manages to at least get their head back onto his shoulder again.

“I think you have had a much longer day than I,” he tells them.

After a moment, they let out a long breath.

“I am going to have to deal with what is left of him, tomorrow,” they say.

“Tomorrow, surely,” Thenvunin agrees, feeling even more concerned at that. Will there be trouble with Mana’Din, he wonders? Well. He shall speak to her, if need be. She is like their Lavellan, after all, and she understands these things. The prospect makes him want to ask for answers and clarification straight away. He bites down the impulse, firmly. “Tomorrow you will have to explain more of it to me as well. But for now, it is late, and I have you safe and sound.”

Uthvir makes a slightly strained noise.

“Better than I deserve,” they murmur, quietly. It is the first sharp thing they have brought to bed with them, tonight. That knife of blame they angle so readily at themselves.

Sometimes Thenvunin wonders if they are so accustomed to being cut to ribbons that, when no one else will do it, they take matters into their own hands.

“It is  _not,”_  he refutes, gently. His own eyes itch, as he hooks a finger under their chin, and lifts their head enough to press a kiss of his own to their lips.

“He did not hurt  _me,”_  they confess against his mouth. Misery and old, frustrated anger at last escaping their hold.

“Perhaps not back then,” Thenvunin allows. “But I was not the one wrestling with such matters today. I had a good day, Uthvir. I had lunch with my love and I had dinner with my friends, and guests over in the garden. I fed my birds and I took a bath and I waited for you to come home.”

They are quiet, for a moment. The bond between them feels different. They have never really had it open, with this kind of closeness, for such a discussion before. It is not creating particularly strong sensations. It makes Thenvunin think of the first few times he was naked after his body was repaired, early into his adulthood. Self-conscious and strange, a little disorienting, but not for any particular sensation or response. Just for the vulnerability of it all. The newness and the awareness of how much had changed.

Back then, he had known that he was supposed to find all the changes good. And the absence of pain had been startling. He had lived with so much of it, for so long, that he had never really known what it was like to have it all gone. It made him feel  _too_  light, almost. As if he might float away, and fall into the stars, and never be seen again.

Some of that might carry through, because Uthvir tightens their grip on him. Thenvunin lets himself appreciate it. He likes the firmness with which they hold him. Not a cage, but an anchor. Something that helps tether him to where he  _wishes_  to be.

He tries to return the favour. Something in his chest settles, even though their positions do not change. The sense of strangeness abates.

“Everything is alright, Uthvir,” Thenvunin says. He repeats it a few times, voice low until he is surprised to realize that their breaths have evened out. There is no exhaustion in the bond, so it takes him a moment to realize that they are actually falling asleep. It is not something he would have expected from them, worked up as they are. But then again, the settled feeling in his chest seems to echo something deeper inside of them. Tumult releasing, tension ebbing…

If it helps them feel better, he is all for it.

He is nearly certain that they have fallen entirely asleep, when they let out a soft sound, and then press a hand to his chest. Shifting a little, they look up at him.

Their eyes look very dark, in the gloom. Almost all black. Thenvunin must be fairly tired himself, because the room seems to have gotten darker. Or perhaps some clouds have passed over the moon.

Reaching up, Uthvir brushes a hand down his cheek.

“ _Thenvunin_ ,” they say.

Their voice sounds… different. Deep and… and, just. Different, somehow.

He frowns, and shifts around a bit. Nothing feels wrong, though.

“What is it?” he asks.

But their eyes are sliding closed again, and they only let out another sigh, and rest their head against his shoulder once more.

“You,” they say, still in that strange voice. “It is  _you_. Oh… oh. Maybe it is us, too.”

“Uthvir…?”

They seem to fall asleep in earnest at that point. Thenvunin brushes his fingers through their hair a bit more, and shifts a little as certain bodily fluids start to dry against his skin. And their clothes, too. But the bed is warm and comfortable, and he is loathe to move. His love is sleeping in his arms, and as a general rule, he detests leaving them when they are actually doing that. He settles more comfortably, and slips up hand up under Uthvir’s loose shirt. Resting his palm against warm skin, until his own eyelids begin to drift shut.

His dreams are odd, he thinks. He does not entirely remember them when he wakes. Just vague impressions of Uthvir, and many shadows, all wrapped up around him. Whispering apologies he keeps having to refute, until at last they wake.

 

~

 

The reports Uthvir has to fill out on the ‘incident’ with Liurven end up being fairly extensive.

They discuss the matter with Mana’Din, of course, who, after some brief tension, is surprisingly calm and understanding about the situation. Liurven’s further fate rests in her hands, which Uthvir thinks is too kind, honestly. Even knowing that he is probably going to be detained until a situation arises where a death really is required. Most likely, Elgar’nan will demand some form of tribute for the upcoming centennial solstice, and whilst Mana’Din does not make sacrifices for her own celebrations or construction efforts, criminals are sometimes offered to the other evanuris when  _contributions_  cannot be avoided.

Either that, or the man will be lawfully executed, to make a point of these issues. It probably depends on how Mana’Din’s tensions with her grandmother are manifesting. Public execution would be a subversive backhand to Arlathan’s dealings. Sacrifice, on the other hand, would be well in-keeping with imperial standards, and would not require illumination on Liurven’s crimes. Which, Uthvir would personally prefer – they cannot extrapolate on their knowledge of his inclinations, after all, so the case for a public execution would look weaker than usual.

Mana’Din keeps her own counsel on it, however.

Which means that they must prepare reports and find further dirt on the man, to account for either decision. And that is on top of their usual work, and the pertinent information from scouts, reports from the outposts, and various pressing matters of security, information gathering, and a few agent reviews. Some apprentices are up for evaluation. Uthvir likes to review them every five years, to assess their viability for promotion, or to consider transferring them out to another field. One apprentice, Iniel, has been on their list to let go for the past couple of years. Their emotional state and the work they do have not proven as compatible as Uthvir would like, and they have some good prospects elsewhere.

But they need to check those, first, and to do an interview and make certain that they have their various commendations available, and also that Iniel will have a period of leave time, to sort things out on their own end.

What it all translates to is several busy work days, in the midst of Uthvir feeling terribly disinclined to leave Thenvunin’s side.

It is not such an issue during the day. Thenvunin still works largely from his desk in their office, unless he has meetings or councils to attend to, or is travelling to a military outpost somewhere. It has been a quiet year, though, will little call for him to leave the city, and he has only a few morning meetings scheduled, apart from his usual work. Uthvir’s nerves appreciate the calm of having him working quietly in their peripheral vision, as they go through their own files and write, and write, and  _write._

Evenings are trickier. They bring their work home, and spend the hours between the technical end of their working day, and nightfall, dining and speaking with Thenvunin, and relaxing somewhat. But after he falls asleep, they retreat to their study, and carry on. Despite the persistent urge to remain with him. Thenvunin himself wakes a few times during the night, huffing and rubbing at his chest, and giving them worried looks.

“It is  _late,_ ” he reminds them. “Why are you sitting in here, worrying and over-working yourself?”

“I have things to do,” Uthvir replies, more tersely than they mean to. They are not annoyed with Thenvunin, but it is… they  _are_  frustrated. With something. Difficult to pin down, but it is probably a combination of the issue with Liurven, and Fear’s strange moodswings, and their dislike for being in the study whilst Thenvunin is sleeping, and the normal stresses of having to mentally and physically organize so many reports and records at once.

“Surely they can wait until morning,” Thenvunin cajoles, and moves closer. He gets a certain look in his eye, and then ‘accidentally’ pulls the collar of his robe open a bit more. It is not even  _remotely_  subtle. Uthvir’s lips twitch, but after a moment, fondness wins out over annoyance. They let him take their hand, and silently tug them back to his room.

Perhaps it is a good idea to relieve some of their tension. Much as they want their current matters cleared up, it is true enough to say that they  _always_  have a lot of work, these days.

Thenvunin is pliant to their kisses, and insistent when he plucks at their armour, and seduces them into undressing. Uthvir’s pulse quickens, but ever since the night after Liurven was  _dealt with,_  Fear has been less agitated over their strange new… aptitude, for connecting with Thenvunin. Uthvir thinks, perhaps, that whatever it has been doing has settled. It certainly  _feels_  like something has settled. There are no more aches in their chest, as they press kisses to Thenvunin’s heart. But they do still feel it, when they draw him to completion. A bright flare that pulls them over, too, and leaves them tingling from head to toe.

It just seems to happen of its own accord, however. When they prod Fear on the subject, the only response they get is the mental equivalent of a shrug. Fear is more concerned with making certain that they do not get ambushed while they are distracted. Much as they usually are, when Uthvir and Thenvunin have sex.

It is a relief.

It feels as if things have gone back to normal, for them.

They hold Thenvunin for a few hours, in the dark. Listening to his breaths even out, and feeling pleasantly warm and sated. More relaxed.

Relaxed enough to get some work done again, they think.

They climb back out of his bed just before sunrise. Going back into the study still annoys them, however, and they are given to the strange but insistent impression that their annoyance will somehow disturb Thenvunin’s sleep. Fear seems certain of it, however illogical that might be. Uthvir sighs, and debates, and then ends up dragging their work out to the breakfast table instead. In the little dining room, they can see the hall that leads to Thenvunin’s door, and turning their head shows them the garden outside. Thenvunin’s window looks out onto the garden, of course.

It works. They can see all points of exit and entry into Thenvunin’s room, which settles their nerves again, and lets them focus on their work. They fill out papers, and only occasionally have to go back and retrieve something from their study. But they time the sun has risen, the little breakfast table is covered in references and files and forms. They recollect, then, that today is their last day to approve some requisition orders and forward them to the city managers on behalf of their Daran agents. So they get up, before Thenvunin has woken, and go and retrieve  _those_  papers from their office. Stopping along the way to get a breakfast tray as well.

They bring the outdoor dining table inside, and set the food onto it. As well as a fair few of their new stacks of paperwork.

When Thenvunin wakes up, he looks into the dining room. Double-takes, and then frowns at them.

“Uthvir,” he says. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Just getting a little work done,” they reply. Taking a sip of their morning tea, and glaring at one of the requisitions forms. Lasmami has filled it out incorrectly again. They are starting to think that some sort of dyslexia may be plaguing that child.

Thenvunin lets out a huff. Uthvir feels another odd surge of annoyance.

“But that is the  _outdoor table,”_  he protests. “It looks terrible in here!”

Uthvir rolls their eyes, just a little.

“I am not  _leaving it_  in here,” they say. “I just needed it for the morning. Stop fretting and come and eat.”

Again, Thenvunin huffs.

“There are papers on everything,” he protests.

Uthvir ignores him, for the moment. Complaining is hardly an uncommon pastime of his, and their mind is mostly still occupied with figuring out if they should translate Lasmami’s requisition into something the city managers will actually accept, or leave it be and hope that its dismissal actually works as a suitable lesson on the importance of filling out paperwork correctly. They purse their lips, and then let out a breath, and then dig out a fresh requisitions sheet.

With another huff, Thenvunin straightens his robe, and heads for the garden doors. To feed his birds, no doubt. He leaves the door open, and Uthvir does not object to it at first. It makes it easier to watch him, as he goes about refilling the feeders and checking his nests, and cooing and humming at his feathered friends.

Most of Thenvunin’s birds are smart enough to steer clear of Uthvir. Or they are smart enough to be jealous and inventively petty, in one particular case.

But some of Thenvunin’s birds, it must be said, are very pretty, and  _far_  too dumb to differentiate between their beloved blond caretaker, and said caretaker’s predatory and infinitely dangerous associate. Which is why Uthvir can only sigh when they hear a distinctive flutter, and look up to see a small, fluffy, silver-and-blue songbird perching on their second table.

“Thenvunin,” they call. “One of your birds got in.”

Thenvunin looks over, and then sniffs.

“Oh, that is just Moonweaver. She usually sits at the outdoor table to eat her breakfast, she will behave herself. Just give her some fruit.”

“This is  _our_  fruit, not  _bird_  fruit,” Uthvir protests. Their entirely valid comment goes ignored, however, and ‘Moonweaver’ begins hopping determinedly towards the breakfast tray. Scattering a few papers, until Uthvir must get up, and rescue both breakfast and work. They make an effort to shoo the little creature, but it only peeps and then hops onto their forearm instead.

“No,” Uthvir says, and flicks warningly at it.

The flicking merits a blink, and then another peep.

Clueless animal.

With an aggravated breath, Uthvir picks up a wedge of fruit from the tray, and offers it to the bird. Moonweaver snatches is immediately, and then flutters back over to the dining table, and only Uthvir’s quick reflexes prevent her from messily devouring it on top of one of their references.

They have only just determined that the bird has enough space on the table to keep from being a further nuisance for now, when two more fly in.

 _“Thenvunin!”_  they call, a little more forcefully.

Thenvunin heads back, then. Wearing a fourth bird in his hair.

“They keep flying in,” Uthvir says. It is not entirely uncommon for birds to come inside, but usually that summons Thenvunin to come and gently shoo them back into the garden of his own accord.

This morning, however, they just get a disdainful sniff.

“Well, you took their table. They are confused,” he says.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“This is not  _their_  table, this is  _our_  outdoor dining table. And there are two more outside,” they say.

Thenvunin waves at them.

“Just give them something to eat and they will fly back out,” he insists. “I have to check the incubators, we are nearing hatch time.”

The two new arrivals prove about as dense as Moonweaver, as they try to accost Uthvir’s work and breakfast as well. They have to snatch up a piece of honeyed bread before one of them can attempt to eat it, and poison itself. Replacing it with some more slices of fruit, as the little silver-and-blue birds cheep and one of them gets tiny footprints on their requisition form.

“Shoo,” Uthvir says, and motions firmly.

Moonweaver, who has finished her own fruit slice, somehow takes this as a cue to hop onto their forearm again.

“ _No_ ,” Uthvir says, sternly. “Go back outside. No birds inside, I am a  _dangerous predator,_  and I will  _eat you.”_

They bare their teeth, and hiss.

Moonweaver is utterly undisturbed.

Thenvunin, on the other hand, lets out a horrified gasp. They feel an odd twisting pang, and then the man finally sweeps in, and plucks up all of his birds.

“ _Really,_  Uthvir!” he snaps, before hurrying out again. Murmuring apologies and reassurances to pets who seem far less disturbed by their empty threats than Thenvunin himself does. With a sigh, Uthvir looks back towards the mess of the tables.

Alright, they can concede – this was ill-thought. They know Thenvunin prefers things to be orderly, and dislikes it when they bring work out of its designated ‘work areas’. Lifting a hand, they brush their forehead, and shake their head at themselves. Of course, it wouldn’t be nearly so messy if their beloved did not decide to be passive-aggressive and let his birds express his dissatisfaction  _for_  him. And really, what did he think Uthvir would do?  _Not_  snap at them?

They would not  _actually harm_  Thenvunin’s pets.

Surely he knows that.

They have never laid a finger on a single one. But… then again, he does get very sensitive about the prospect of anyone hurting them.

They gather up their papers and folders, scrolls and forms, and start carrying them back into the study. Using a few useful spells to help float what will not fit into their arms, so they need only make a single trip. They deposit it all onto the desk – and a few things onto the floor beside it, just for now  - and then make their way back to the tables.

To find two of the songbirds inside again, pecking at some of the honey bread.

“ _No,”_  they snap, firmly, and hastily pull the bread away from the birds. It is bad for them, according to Thenvunin. They scoop up the entire tray, for good measure, as the little creatures flutter back with only a few peeps of protest.

“What are you doing?!” Thenvunin calls back, and comes in again. “Stop yelling at the poor things!”

“Then stop letting them inside, where they can poison themselves!” Uthvir retorts, and sets the breakfast tray back down again. With more force than they had intended. The dishes clatter, and one of the tea cups topples over. An empty one, at least. The birds flutter back outside at the noise. Thenvunin’s eyes widen, and Uthvir stills for a moment, too. The sound having jolted them out of their frustration, a little.

For a moment, they regard one another in the awkward silence that can only follow a very stupid sort of argument. Uthvir stares at Thenvunin, and Thenvunin stares at the floor.

“…I apologize,” they offer. “I did not mean to snap. Not at you, nor them. I am not as good with them as you are.”

Thenvunin lets out a breath of his own.

“No,” he says. “I should have minded them more carefully. I am sorry, I just…”

“I know,” they interject. “You dislike it when I move things around like that, and work through meals. I meant to work early and I just… wasn’t thinking. I should have put it away when you woke.”

Some of the tension eases out of Thenvunin’s shoulders. It takes a heavy, constricted, irritated feeling from them, in turn. They venture a step forward, and when that seems to help, they reach over and brush some of his hair away from his cheek.

“Shall we have breakfast?” they suggest.

Thenvunin looks over the tables again, and then nods.

“Of course. But I am putting this back outside, first, to where it belongs,” he declares. “…Thank you for putting your work away.” He offers them a smile, and they tilt their head in acknowledgement.

“Thank you for putting your birds back outside,” they reply.

When they finally sit together for breakfast, then, they soak in the subsequent moment of calm.

 

~

 

Thenerassan is a  _most_  handsome man.

Sathedahl often catches himself thinking so. Handsome Thenerassan, with his pale green eyes, and his broad shoulders, and his lovely strong thighs, and absolutely  _gorgeous_  hair. There are so many parts of him that might catch a person off-guard. He has, for instance, very attractive forearms. And long eyelashes. And the most beautiful curve to the small of his back, and occasionally, a smattering of freckles across his collarbones. Like a painter has delicately gone over him and decided to add more detail in there.

Oh, he is a  _masterwork,_  Sathedahl thinks. It has only been three hundred years since Sath began his apprenticeship as a body designer, but in that time he has learned to see the skill in other people’s works quite well. Whoever made Thenerassan’s body did so with the utmost care, and only some oddly restrictive decisions here and there. Which, he has gathered, is not at all uncommon in the wider empire.

“You are staring again,” Reputation drawls.

Sathedahl blinks, and realizes it is true. The two of them are standing in Daran’s market square, and he had managed to stop dead in the middle of it in order to stare at General Thenerassan, as the other man proceeded towards one of the garden stalls. Luckily, a quick check around does not seem to reveal anyone inconvenienced by the sudden halt in traffic. This time, anyway.

“You can hardly blame me,” he defends.

Reputation gives him a look that implies that she most assuredly can blame him, or at least judge him somewhat. She takes his arm and tugs him back towards the road they had meant to leave by, and rolls her eyes when he cranes to try and glimpse Thenerassan one last time. Just before they go.

Reputation’s concerns are somewhat self-evident, though. She has only been in a body for a decade now, and sometimes she still behaves more like a spirit than anything else.

Her form is Sathedahl’s best work, and was his very first solo project – well, after a fashion. His mentor, Erua, had still overseen everything of course. And Reputation had been there as well, to provide input and make choices for herself. Building bodies is a complicated craft, and most apprentices do not even get to touch the actual forms until they have been studying for at least a century. Sath had accepted Erua’s offer of an apprenticeship quite readily, eager to move away from being a healer and dealing with injuries, and into less draining work. He has never regretted the choice, and giving Reputation a body has been the very best part of it so far.

He had done good work, even if he did say so himself. Erua, who had come to serve Mana’Din from Mythal’s ranks, was not frequently given to compliments. But she had enthused over his success with Reputation. The initial base body was a little plain, granted, but they were supposed to be at that stage, and after Reputation had requested it, and Sath had spent the better part of ten hours working on it, he had managed to give her the most beautiful opalescent eyes. Which still worked very well, of course. The rest of the form had been designed to be malleable, to suit the changes which Reputation would probably make once she took it on. And changed it she had; but the eyes had remained, and even when they look at him with reproach, Sathedahl cannot help but feel a persistent self-satisfaction.

Reputation is a distinctly honest-looking elf, he might say. She owns most of the credit for that, however. He is sure that he set her features to look more sharp and striking when he first put them together, but she had rearranged them into a broader, friendlier sort of face. She had curled the auburn hair he had given her, too, and within a year it had darkened from red to brown to black, and now it is quite far removed from the strands her first coaxed from her scalp. The dark purple skin she had requested had not lasted long either, before turning a less gaudy shade of brown. Erua had tried to talk her out of the purple; odd colours could sometimes cause lingering effects, and it was generally easy to just work off of a simpler base and then add colours later, with shifting or tints or dyes. But Reputation had been insistent, seeing as purple was associated with integrity, and so Sath had done his best to make certain that the colour would not shift oddly if she grew sick of it.

Which she did, of course. She does not like to  _admit_  that she made a silly decision at the time, however.

“And now you are staring at  _me_  again,” Reputation informs him, but without any real annoyance.

“Did you cut your hair?” Sath asks, frowning at the curls.

“No,” she says. “I just tied it up.”

She gives him a  _look,_  and he dutifully drops the subject.

Ten years is not a long time to be around, but of course, Reputation had been his friend long before that. She had turned up in the camps. Born of one of the overseers, everyone suspected; an uncommon sort of spirit for the place. Auren had found her first, when she was just a flickering little thing, stuck in the fence behind the barracks and all upset about it. Sathedahl did not like to think about those days, though. And Reputation had stopped remembering a lot of it when she had taken on a body.

Sometimes it frustrated Auren, that neither of them wanted to discuss the past. But most days, he understood, and they had other friends who had more of his attitude about it. Who would talk about it, and feel like that helped.

Sathedahl would prefer to just forget. To just hand over his memories. He has done, with some of them; there’s a Spirit of Fear who offers to take them from people, in Daran’s Dreaming. It is discreet enough, and precise enough that Sath has not lost important things. Like meeting Reputation, or falling in love with Auren, or knowing what had happened to the members of his clan. The facts he must keep, even when it is all tangled up with things he would rather not have lived through.

He lets his mind drift back towards handsome Thenerassan, lest he become morose. It is much easier to just focus on the present, and pretend that his life began the minute Mana’Din put her markings on his face. His  _new_  life certainly did.

“Do you think Thenerassan looks nice in that shade of cerulean?” he wonders. “I think it looked pleasant with the pink in his outer robe, but do you think it suited  _him?_  He looks better in green, and purple, really. And red. Oh, he looks  _radiant_ in red! I wish he had been wearing red today, but I don’t think I have ever seen him wear that colour to market. Usually just around the palace…”

“Really, Sath,” Reputation sighs at him. “He is in a  _closed_  relationship. With the Spymaster. Who terrifies you.”

Sathedahl twists his lips, then lets out a sigh. “That is just a  _rumour,”_  he insists, a little mulishly. Of course, it is not just a rumour that Thenerassan is in a relationship with the Spymaster. The rumour is that it is a  _closed_  relationship. Which would just be a terrible waste, in his esteemed opinion. Spymaster Uthvir is very tacky.

Also, though Sath can concede that it is  _probably_  not their fault, whoever made their body did a terrible job of it. The shade of gold used for their skin looks nice enough most of the time, and is especially suited to indoor light, but he can just tell that it would not take much to sour it. And they have constantly-applied shapeshifting, literally every time he sees them, which means that whoever made their body did not design it to be malleable enough because Sath has literally never seen the Spymaster change their looks. Which means that those ‘modifications’ of theirs  _should_  have just become part of their natural form, if their designer had the least little bit of skill for their work. He had pointed out some of the errors to Erua, back when she was teaching him to notice such things.

“Sometimes it is like that in the Empire,” she had told him. But she had not explained her meaning to his satisfaction, after that. Though she  _had_  pointed out some of the very skillfully designed aspects of their form, before selecting another target for them to pluck apart.  

Sath does not think they make up for the failures, though. And perhaps that is why the Spymaster seems perpetually displeased and suspicious. Though they have never spoken to him, Sathedahl thinks they are the kind of person who would judge him. They do not have a kind and friendly aura, like Thenerassan. Everything about them is sharp and bitter and perhaps not  _actively unpleasant,_ but clearly capable of becoming so with little provocation.

Auren thinks they seem  _good,_  but then again, Auren is a sweetheart.

Reputation declines to scold him any further on the subject, at least, as they make their way back home. Erua has a small office in the city, but she and Sathedahl tend to travel a lot for their work. There is a dearth of experienced body designers in Mana’Din’s territories, so they often must pack up and set off to help with embodiments throughout the territory. Erua has an apartment in Arlathan, from when she served Mythal, and worked in the city with a group of other designers. She often heads back there when they do not have an assignment, and that is where she is at the moment. Otherwise, she tends to stay in the rooms beneath her office. Sathedahl and Reputation and Auren do not live very from it, either. Their little house is one segment of a large row of buildings, with only a small square space for a vegetable garden in the back, and a front door that goes right onto the street. The guest bedroom has become Reputation’s room, ever since she became embodied, and Auren officially took her on as his own apprentice. Though privately, Sath does not think Reputation will keep on with construction work past another decade or so. Just enough to gain some good regard as an apprentice in general, before she goes off to pursue a field that is more to her own liking. She might come and work with himself and Erua, but first she would need a basis in healing magic, of course. Sathedahl has been gathering the names of some healers looking to take on students – just in case.

They carry their bags in through the front door. Some more food for their emergency pantry, and a few spare trinkets which caught Sathedahl’s eye, before Thenerassan did. The front room is, as ever, all full of Auren’s papers. Reputation sighs and tuts and picks up a few that have migrated to the entryway floor, before going down the steps into the little parlour, and placing them neatly onto the table there.

Auren beams up at them.

“Hello, you two!” he greets. “How was the market? Did they have beets?”

“Oh, plenty. We got three jars, for a good price,” Reputation informs him. Sathedahl pulls out the scarf he had uncovered at one of the mixed trade stalls, and drapes it over his husband’s shoulders, before leaning in to steal a kiss.

Nobody made Auren’s body. It was grown, and that has often occurred to Sathedahl as evidence of the great ironies of the world. That a man so fundamentally marvelous, and a body so beloved by him, should be to the credit of no one except for change and good genes – how frustrating! What sort of craftsman could compete with Auren’s artfully lopsided grin, and perfectly round nose, and cool, dark skin? Sathedahl had tried to sculpt him, to mimic the shade of his skin on projects, to capture just the write warmth of his eyes in paintings – but it never compares. Never even comes close.

So he makes do with kissing him, until Auren hums and then nudges him back.

“I am still working, you know,” his husband informs him, reaching up to tweak his ear, and then pulling off the scarf so he can look at it. “And what have you got me?”

“A soft thing to keep your neck company, while my lips are away from it,” Sathedahl informs him.

It earns him a snort, and a rush of fondness.

“Talk like that will get you nowhere. I am elbows-deep in a dam,” Auren replies, but submits to a few more kisses, before earnestly shooing him off and heading back to his maze of blueprints. “Reputation, you may take another hour but then I need you,” he declares.

“Of course,” Reputation agrees. “I shall come and help you, while Sath retires to his room to try and paint General Thenerassan again.”

Sathedahl would deny that as his intention, but there probably isn’t much point. Auren just laughs at him.

“Was he at market?” his husband guesses.

“Oh, yes. Performing the marvelous task of walking and breathing at the same time,” Reputation replies. “It nearly did Sath in.”

Sathedahl folds his arms.

“Neither of you have the eye to appreciate how well-built that man is,” he defends.

“I think I can manage  _some_  appreciation,” Auren wryly retorts. “Though I admit, I lack your fervent desire to sing praises to his eyelashes and fling roses at his feet.”

“Roses are expensive. I would hand them to him, like a gentleman,” Sathedahl corrects.

“And then be flayed alive by the Spymaster,” Reputation insists, once again. “Of all the handsome elves to pick, why do you insist upon mooning over one who is most emphatically the  _worst possible choice?_  It makes you look clueless, at best.”

“I think I am done listening to the two of you gang up on me,” Sath decides, because of course he cannot rightly answer that question, except to insist again that Thenerassan’s relationship with the Spymaster is not definitely,  _absolutely_ closed for certain. That is just what the scouts and agents of the palace say. Which means it is probably what the Spymaster has told them to say, so, he supposes that there are good odds that Uthvir wishes to keep their handsome and well-built and wonderfully kind man all to themselves.

But that could just be greed. It doesn’t necessarily mean  _Thenerassan_  has committed to such an unlikely thing.

Sathedahl abandons Auren and Reputation, who despite Auren’s offer of a longer break, seems set upon rejoining him as he fusses with his blueprints. Second stories are somewhat uncommon in Daran; third stories are more rare, but their housing block is in the middle of the city, and the buildings here trend towards height. The staircase in their home is very narrow, but Sath likes that it leaves more space for the actual rooms around it. He passes the second story, which has the guest room and the washroom, and makes his way to the third, where his and Auren’s room and his little studio are located.

Technically, there is enough room for the both of them to have their own chambers, if Sath would be willing to part with his studio. And he does not actually need it; there is space enough in Erua’s office that he could pursue most of his artistry there. It  _does_  tie in with his work, after all. Most body designers have backgrounds in healing and in artistry – both skills are required. But he likes being able to paint and sculpt in his own space, and his and Auren’s room can still feel positively cavernous, sometimes. Sleeping alone has yet to appeal to the two of them, either.

Reputation is still trying to make them get a ‘proper bed’, but she presses less hard on that point than most. Mainly, Sath suspects, because they do not tend to bring visitors into their room, so no one really ever sees the overgrown nest of blankets and pillows that they have accumulated on the floor.

It works for them. That is always the most important thing, and there is no law saying that all elves in the Empire must sleep on beds.

Settling down in front of his easel, Sathedahl carefully moves yet another failed attempt at capturing his husband’s features onto the nearby table. Next to his latest and equally failed sculpture, and a few experimental sketches. He retrieves two of his smaller anatomy models, and reshapes their proportions to better match with Thenerassan’s. Perhaps it is movement, he thinks. There is certainly something in the man’s bearing that speaks to artistry. He nudges the models into movement. Walking, running, bowing, twirling. And then sets his mind to overlaying some of Thenerassan’s particular quirks, before he begins to sketch.

A blank canvas, Sathedahl has always found, is simultaneously full of promise and possibilities, and daunting in its lack of points to work from. Once he begins to put down lines, a pattern is set, and can be improved upon or altered or abandoned. But those first lines, he has often found, set the course for an entire sessions of drawing, and so he dithers a moment before finally stealing himself enough to just make a mark, and begin.

Time is no object. He has lived a long life, and he has filled in and erased and painted over large swaths of his own history. What is an hour, what is a canvas, when compared to that?

But it is still a luxury, in the corners of his mind, to even have the ability to do this again. Which is why he cannot always join Auren in regretting the markings of Mana’Din that brand their faces. Sathedahl had regretted his rebellion very early into their days in the camps. He never would have left Auren – never could have lived with himself, having done that. And he did hate the Empire. But what had it served? All those years of pain and suffering… the Empire had still owned them, in the end, because they were simply not strong enough to deny it. To fight it.

At least now, they can paint. Auren can build. Sathedahl can sculpt, and learn his new craft, and make beautiful things that comfort and please and inspire people.

Perhaps the truth is simply that he gave up on any kind of true freedom, whilst Auren never has.

These are oddly maudlin and slightly-unpleasant thoughts to dwell upon, as he tries to capture Thenerassan’s beauty. But, oddly, they almost seem to help, as the sketches come together and he finally begins to put paint onto a canvas that, from the start, he thinks is promising. Perhaps that is a part of it – heavy thoughts to put the right sort of  _lean_  into Thenerassan’s stride. A moment captured in such a way as to imply the movement finishing, the way the General comports himself. Graceful and so aware, it would seem, and yet detached as well. Burdened and unburdened all at once.

Sathedahl thinks that may be another thing he is drawn to, in the man’s beautiful eyes. He thinks, maybe, Thenerassan might be another like him; who prefers to keep moving, and to sweep away old miseries, rather than dig them up and turn them over in his hands, the way that Auren and so many of their friends prefer to.

By the time he is finished, the light outside has changed. Fiery sunset settles into the room, and he cannot continue with his painting in the midst of it. The project is not done, but the essence of what it will probably become has been laid out. Thenerassan, walking down the street. Clothes billowing around him, expression thoughtful. A man tallying some important internal list of duties and responsibilities, obligations and perhaps even pleasures, as he makes his way down a street that is familiar to him.

Sathedahl is frustrated with the way his legs came out, but especially pleased with his hair, he decides.

As he is making a cursory effort to clean the paint from his hands, the stairs squeak. He turns, and spies Auren heading up to him. Carrying a cup of tea in one hand, and napkin with a few spare rolls on the other.

“We decided to take a break to eat,” he explains. “And then I realized you almost certainly hadn’t, and thought you might be hungry.”

As if reminded of its existence, Sath’s stomach growls in agreement.

Auren laughs.

“I guess that answers that,” he declares, and pads his way over. His steps quiet, his tunic slightly askew as he comes and puts the rolls and the tea into Sathedahl’s hands, and drops a kiss onto his cheek. Then he turns, and looks at the painting.

“Hey, now!” he exclaims, happily. “That is  _lovely,_  Sath!”

He feels a rush of pleasure at the praise, but cannot resist the sudden urge to dig into the rolls, either.

“Not a disaster yet, anyway,” he replies, through a mouthful of crumbs.

Auren tuts at him.

“How cruelly you disparage my favourite artist,” he rebukes, and flicks his ear. “I will not have it. This is shaping up to be a wonderful piece. You should take it to Thenerassan, when you have finished it. Show him what you can do.”

Sathedahl nearly coughs up his next bite.

“Dearest heart!” he protests. “How could I risk offending such a lovely creature so? What if he does not like the way I depict him? There is a reason I am not a portrait artist by trade.”

His husband gives him a  _look._

“Yes, and it is because you hate painting what other people want you to,” he declares, and folds his arms. He treats the painting to another scrutinizing look, while Sathedahl sighs at his praise. It is not that he does not appreciate it. He does. But Auren has always been… he always  _believes_  in him.

Sometimes there is a strange sort of pressure, to that.

After a moment, Auren seems to pick up on his mood. He looks back towards him, and then reaches out and brushes his fingers across his cheek. Sathedahl slumps in his chair, and sips his tea, and becomes aware of the way in which he has been twisting and hunching around his canvas. His muscles are just a little bit sore from it, now.

“Sathedahl,” he says. “You won  _me_  over with a painting.”

Sath raises his eyebrows.

“A painting?” he drawls, and sets aside the second, half-finished bun, and the cup of tea. Just so that he can reach over, and begin to draw his husband towards him. Auren settles his hands onto his shoulders, and straddles his lap with little coaxing. It is, perhaps, not ideal for the chair which Sath is in, or the state of his muscles at the moment, but it has the benefit of getting Auren in range for kissing. So it is a discomfort worth enduring. “I remember it taking far more than  _a painting,”_  he says, between one stolen kiss and the next.

Auren curls his fingers behind his ears, and his gaze goes half-lidded.

“It would have been too easy if I had let you know how easily you seduced me,” he counters, and steals the third kiss for himself. “And besides – I wanted more presents.”

Sathedahl laughs, and tentatively, lets himself remember. A younger Auren, at the Shrine of the Wanderer. In his priestly attire, with a perpetually unimpressed look affixed to his face. Oh, how eager Sath had been to do something to break that cool disinterest. How many foolish overtures he had made! He had sung songs, even though he could not sing. He had flung roses at the refined priest, even though it took him hours and hours to find and gather any. He had tried making special soaps and weaving garments and burned his hands at the forge, trying to piece together gemstone jewellery. And he had painted, and painted, and  _painted,_  because that at least was something he could do with  _some_ success.

The first painting, Auren had received with some surprise, and a singular compliment. A nod of acknowledgement. It had not been until the third painting that Auren had seen fit to give a gift to him, a honeycomb necklace of amber, which he had lost… which is gone, now. And it had not been until the tenth painting that he had been invited to the other man’s bedchamber.

The paintings are all gone now, too, but Sathedahl does not lament them so much. Auren is still here; that is miracle enough, and none of those images ever did him justice anyway.

His kisses turn more fervent.

“I never painted you well enough,” he says. “I am surprised you did not throw my clumsy tributes aside in disgust. No one could have blamed you.”

Auren tweaks his ear again.

“What have I told you about disparaging my favourite artist?” he repeats, and Sath relents, because he knows it makes him genuinely unhappy.

“You paint better than me anyway,” he nevertheless insists, before opting to resolve the issue of the uncomfortably chair by gripping his husband tight, and lifting him as he stands. It is a bit of a strain, but on some different places, at least. And he only keeps it up for the length of time it takes to carry Auren into their bedroom.

“I  _draw_  better than you, I have no patience for paints,” Auren insists, kissing his nose. “And anyway, where do you think you are taking me? Reputation is still waiting for me downstairs. We have work yet to do.”

“It is evening,” Sath objects.

“Hm. Then we should go to dinner,” Auren teases him, slipping his hands beneath the collar of his tunic, and leaning away from yet another kiss. He puts his feet down on the ground, and when Sathedahl makes a sound of objection, whirls them both playfully around. Turning the tide on him, and somehow spilling out of his clutches.

Sly man.

“My arms are too empty, come back into them,” Sathedahl pleads.

“You see?” Auren replies, grinning. “Use a line like  _that_  on Lovely Thenerassan, and you will have no more reason to pine.”

“Pining is in my nature,” he points out. “I pine for you and you are only so far away as my fingertips. Yet, I am all full of yearning. My lips already miss yours; my heart grows cold from the lack of your breast against my own. In all love, I fear I am doomed to be a pining mess.”

His husband comes back in for another hug, but he is somewhat concerned, Sath is surprised to realize.

Auren settles a hand on his cheek, and does not move to kiss him again.

“I know you grow… lonely, with more ease than I do,” he says. “In all seriousness, that is why I think you should approach this man. You are a lover, my love, and it has been many years since you indulged such inclinations. I think it would do you some good to try.”

Sathedahl hesitates.

“I…” he trails off.

It is not that Auren is  _wrong,_  per se. It is just… he has not tried, not since the camps. There was so much more to focus on, so many recoveries to be made, and it was hard enough to keep his relationship with his husband from being harmed in the midst of their struggles and disagreements. Funnily enough, Auren had an easier time of taking more lovers, when the mood struck. None who have lasted, so far, but he has indulged in a few interests. And he was always somewhat less inclined to courtship than Sath.

“What is the worst that can happen?” Auren asks, in a familiar cadence.

Sathedahl lets out a breath.

“He takes offence, and the Spymaster has me summarily executed,” he declares.

“Hm. I do not think the Spymaster will actually  _kill you_  for failing to woo their husband,” Auren counters. “The worst outcome is that Thenerassan will simply turn you down, my love. And if he does, then he does. But even if he only considers it a  _little_  while, you will still have a chance to court him. And I know you want to. So why not try?”

Why not, indeed?

He stares into his husband’s honest eyes, and finds he is unequal to the challenge in his gaze. He brushes his cheek, moving his thumb back and forth across the high bones. Noting, for the millionth time, how light his own brown skin looks against his husband’s complexion. They contrast in many ways; but they are appealing ways. Beautiful. Sathedahl looks and feels warmer in Auren’s arms, and Auren becomes calm and sweet in his own. Yielding in ways that might surprise any who only knew him casually.

“I do not know,” he admits. “I do not know why I am so hesitant. I am… perhaps I am still struggling to think why anyone would want me, if they did not already love me. Now. After… everything.”

Auren’s expression goes gentle. He presses a hand to the back of Sathedahl’s neck, until he rests his forehead against him.

“I think, that something like this… it may be a good way to find out what you have to offer,” his husband suggests, softly. “I know my telling you will not help, because it has not. But if you are fishing for compliments, I can offer those, too.” His tone lightens, just a little, on the last note. Sathedahl’s lips twitch.

“I will… consider it,” he concedes, after a moment more.

Auren tilts his head, and brushes his lips over his own.

“Good enough,” he decides. Then he moves a step back again. “But truthfully, Reputation is waiting. Perhaps, though, we should go to dinner?”

He lets out a beleaguered, long-suffering sigh.

“But I was going to make love to you,” he protests.

“Ah, well,” Auren replies, with a teasing wink. “We can put that on the to-do list. I think I have a slot open at the end of the week.”

“Cruel,” Sathedahl protests.

His husband laughs, and makes him chase him back down the stairs.

~

Sathedahl  _does_  think about the matter more seriously than he had been, prior to Auren’s intervention.

Thinking does not manifest in action for several weeks, however. It is not only that he has his own hesitations – though he can admit, he does – but also that… well. It is rare to catch General Thenerassan alone at any time. Particular for those who are not already part of his inner circle of friends and family, it would seem. Sathedahl finishes his painting, and can admit it may be one of his best. General Thenerassan’s daughter comes to visit; a small woman, quite unlike her father in countenance, but similar to him in the way of descendants.

Sath happens to see some of their reunion by the city eluvian. But he does not linger for very long before the Spymaster turns their sharp, disapproving gaze towards him, and he finds somewhere else to be.

It is very easy to blame Uthvir for his utter inability to approach Thenerassan on any substantial level. Auren does not truly let him, but Reputation agrees that the whole thing seems like a fool’s errand.

“Thenerassan and Uthvir are  _married,”_  she sees fit to remind them, over dinner the evening after the couple’s daughter arrives. “How can Sath have a respectable relationship with a man whose spouse he is petrified of? It is a recipe for some kind of scandal, I am absolutely certain. Not to mention that a Spymaster deals in secrets. I think it would be perilous to attempt to forge such connections.”

Sath finds himself wavering between relief that Reputation seems to be in support of his dithering, and affront that she thinks he couldn’t handle a relationship with Thenerassan  _diplomatically._  It is not as if he runs around slandering the Spymaster, after all! Even if they are shoddily made. He has never really  _talked about that_  with anyone save Erua; and even then, only in a professional capacity.

“I am  _not_  ‘petrified’ of Uthvir,” he insists, yet again.

It earns him two skeptical looks.

“I’m not!”

“Well, I hardly think it matters much,” Auren replies, noticeably skirting around his denial. “Perhaps if things took off and became serious, it would be an issue to consider. But we are nowhere near that stage.”

“What is this ‘we’?” Sath interjects, before Reputation can reply. “Are you planning on pursuing Thenerassan as well?” The notion surprises him. It is not  _unheard_  of for them to go after someone else as a couple, but of course they have done such a thing in ages, and they rarely agree upon a target anyways.

Auren laughs, and shakes his head.

“Not at all,” he says. Sath is not entirely sure if that is a relief or a disappointment. On the one hand, having a partner for all of this would certainly come in handy. And it would be easy to deflect some things, and Auren could certainly seduce most anyone he set his mind to, by Sath’s estimation. But on the other hand, it would be incredibly hard to back out of anything if Auren was involved with Thenerassan too. That was how their last venture along these lines ran into trouble. Their lover had lost interest in Sathedahl far sooner than he had lost interest in Auren, and it had… not ended amicably, when all was said and done.

But Auren does not seem the least bit inclined to be swayed, either way.

“Lovely though he may be, all I can think when I look at that man is that he must be  _exhausting_  to keep up with. He is always going somewhere, every time I see him I swear he has new clothes, he has transitioned from being an event planner to a military leader in just a few centuries, and I have heard him talk diplomats into circles of logic which somehow make sense, and yet also feel like the exact opposite of making sense. If he was a building he would be a tower of staircases that constantly moved position,” Auren muses, thoughtfully.

Sathedahl feels as if he might be obliged to defend General Thenerassan from his husband’s choosiness, but after a moment, he can concede that there is not necessarily much to  _refute_  in Auren’s assessment. Just an overall disagreement with its tone, which is purely subjective.

He settles for a shrug, instead.

“I think he seems refreshingly energetic,” he counters.

“Which is why you should take him that painting you did, and tell him you think his eyes are sheer perfection,” Auren concludes.

 _It was a trap all along,_  Sathedahl realizes, and wrinkles his nose.

Reputation tsk’s at the both of them.

“There are  _so many_  handsome elves who would be largely incapable of ruining your social standing,” she protests, wearily. “Why can’t you just pick one of  _them?_ ”

“Because, Reputation, one’s heart is not a servant to be dictated to. It is like a bird – it flies where it wills,” Sathedahl magnanimously explains.

“ _My_  heart is no such thing,” she mutters back at him, skeptically.

“Oh yes it is. I built it myself, and I put little tiny wings upon it,” Sath insists.

She only rolls her eyes at him.

It is a week after that, when Auren overhears a rumour, and then Reputation confirms that the Spymaster is heading out on some assignment or other. Obviously not secret, questionable spy business – or else, the kind of secret, questionable spy business which means that they are not going wherever it is that some people  _expect_  them to be going.

Auren starts giving him  _significant looks_  over that. Sath manages to pretend he does not notice them for a further two weeks, before he finally gives in, and somehow or another manages to find himself standing in the corridors of Daran’s palace. Holding a covered painting, and asking one of the upkeep workers if they know where he might find General Thenerassan.

“You are looking for my father?” a voice asks, before he can get an answer. The worker and he both glance behind him, in unison, to see Thenerassan’s daughter standing at the end of the corridor. La… La-something, Sath thinks her name is. She is dressed in leather practice gear, and looks as if she has just gotten back from some kind of strenuous activity. There is a thin sheen of sweat still clinging to her. It makes him wonder if she was sparring with Thenerassan. Which makes him think, in turn, of Thenerassan sparring. Sunlight glinting off of the droplets of sweat on his own skin, as his muscles went taught with exertion, and his eyes sharpened in determination. His entire body moving like a well-oiled machine, through the dance-like steps of an imagined battleground…

He swallows, nervously.

The worker quietly excuses herself, and La-something strides up towards him. It gives Sath enough time to find his voice again.

“I am,” he confesses, and gestures to the portrait. “Ah, forgive me. I am not expected, but I… I have something for him. A gift.”

La-something raises an eyebrow, at that. “A gift?” she repeats. “Of what sort, and from whom?”

For some reason, he had not expected such questions. Not from her, anyway – from Thenerassan, surely, but… well. He had not expected to meet the man’s daughter at all today. Sath clears his throat, and then ducks into a polite bow.

“A gift from myself. It is a painting,” he admits.

The woman proceeds, then, to scrutinize his offering, and himself, in such a way that makes her connection to Thenerassan’s intimidating spouse impossible to ignore.

“…Alright,” she determines, after a long moment. “If you will permit me to cast a few spells, then I will take you to my father, and you may present your gift to him.”

Sath blinks.

Spells?

“What spells?” he wonders.

La-something offers him a reassuring smile. It does seem genuinely so, in direct contrast to her previous demeanour.

“For security, of course. Just to ascertain what sort of magic may be on the painting, or on your person. I hope it will not interfere with the artwork? One can never be too careful, these days.”

 _Daughter of a spy,_  Sath reminds himself. And a soldier, too. He shrugs, after a moment.

“I cannot see how it would. There is only a little magic, I think, to give more sense of movement to the image than brushstrokes alone would accomplish…”

He trails off, as La-something casts a few spells. The air tingles with the magic, and Sath feels it on his scalp in particular. He suspects that his hair reverts to its natural colour for a half second; but when he checks his reflection in a nearby mirror, the effect does not seem to have been permanent.

La-something nods, distracting him from his momentary unease, and then gestures him forwards. To walk with her.

“Wonderful. And now, I am sure my father will be happy to receive a surprised present from a friend,” she declares.

Sath lets out a breath, and reminds himself that this woman is a good deal smaller than him, and a good deal younger. Though… then again, so is the Lady Mana’Din, and he would not care to enrage her. Nor to declare his intentions of courting her father to her. Not that anyone in their right mind would ever pursue  _that_  man. Ugh, perish the thought! Such a disjointed form. Sath had seen him once, at a distance, and that had been more than enough to reaffirm for him that the usurpers were still as repugnant in nature as ever.

He hesitates until it would be too awkward to clarify that he is not quite a  _friend,_ so much as a hopeful admirer. La-something does not seem much for chit-chat, anyway, as she leads him down several unfamiliar corridors, and then out into the palace’s main gardens. There seems to be some sort of luncheon going, he realizes. Tables have been set out, and high-ranking officials from various city trades are milling about. Chatting in obviously well-choreographed groups and rotations, as some colourful birds flit around a few subtle decorations.

General Thenerassan is standing next to the garden’s central fountain. He has a glass of a pale pink beverage in one hand, and is dressed in an outfit of pale blues, with segments of fabric that tumble elegantly from his shoulders.

Sath hesitates, again.

“There are… a lot of people here, I did not realize there was an event,” he declares, uncertaintly.

La-something stops, and tilts her head.

“Papa tends to do a lot of social networking, while Nanae is away,” she explains. “If you would like, I can take your gift and give it to him myself at a less conspicuous time. Or you can come back. There is a dinner this evening, but I do not think he is terribly busy tomorrow morning…”

Sath lets out a breath.

He has made very public declarations before, of course. But with his nerves being what they are, and with so many eyes potentially about…

He can just  _hear_  what Auren would say, though. What a timid mouse he is being! Letting himself be scared off by some stern glances from his target’s spouse – but what should a bonded elf be, if not protective of any strange eyes upon their partner? And now he would turn away just for the sake of a little social gathering. Reputation would probably call that wise. Better not to risk making a fool of himself in front of so many influential and upstanding people.

“I… ah…” he debates, and then shakes his head at himself. Squares his shoulders. “No, I should be delighted to present my gift to your father right now,” he decides.

La-something treats him to another moment of scrutiny, before finally gesturing towards her father.

“Well, in that case – go on,” she invites.

Sath nods, and taps his fingers against the side of the painting.

His feet do not seem quite as resolved as the rest of him, though. Even though he feels like a fool, that stay rooted in place for several minutes more.

“You, ah, you are certain, though, that this would not be an unwelcome interruption?” he checks. “I have no invitation…”

La-something shakes her head. She gives him another reassuring smile, and he marvels the effect works again. If he did not know any better, he would have taken her for Dreaming-born. There is something about her physical form that makes him think ‘constructed’ rather than ‘bred’, and that sort of innate competence at a particular expression seems like it would come from one who was a comforting or sympathetic sort of spirit. But perhaps his eye is simply not as well-trained as he might like to think. He is still learning the craft of bodies, after all.

“This luncheon is not so formal, and I have brought you here. Look, I will even let him know you have not snuck in somehow,” she tells him, and then lifting her hand, waves an arm. Until, sure enough, Thenerassan looks towards them.

He smiles at his daughter, and glances curiously towards Sathedahl.

Who finds himself arrested by the beauty of his gaze. Oh, however lovely Thenerassan’s eyes may be, they are positively stunning when they look towards  _him._  No descriptor could adequately encompass all the qualities of them. The colour alone is a challenge; a pale green would easily be described any number of ways, and Sath is certain he has used most comparisons. Peridot. Celery. Pistachio. They are all an inadequate set of likenesses, however, for colour alone cannot encompass all the qualities expressed in a soulful person’s eyes.

Sathedahl is suddenly convinced that his painting has failed on every possible level to do them justice.

He almost turns and flees. But then La-something pats at the back of his shoulder, and makes him jump instead.

Her eyebrows lift.

“Nervous?” she asks him, plainly.

“…I…” he manages, as Thenerassan looks back towards her. Before he can truly decide how he should respond, then, the man excuses himself from his current guests, and begins to head towards them. Weaving through the crowds with the practiced ease of a diplomatic expert.

“Lavellan,” he greets his daughter. Some distant corner of Sathedahl’s mind, which has retained its coherence, grasps the name and fervently files it away. Lavellan. Yes, good, it would be incredibly rude of him to disregard the name of Thenerassan’s own  _child._

“Papa,” Lavellan replies. “I have brought you… I apologize, what is your name again?”

Well, at least he is not alone in being inept with names.

“Sathedahl,” Thenerassan answers for her, however. Sath blinks, and feels his skin flush. He had not realized that Thenerassan knew  _his_  name! They have scarcely spoken, after all. Why should the man recollect it? It is a big city, and he certainly knows more than enough people to be forgiven for any failure to keep track of all his acquaintances.

And then Thenerassan  _looks_  at him again, and Sath forgets hot to worry about names as his stomach ties itself into knots. He feels butterflies just above it, fluttering and floating along through his insides.

“Sathedahl,” Lavellan repeats. “He says he has a gift for you.”

This assertion is met with surprise, and a glance towards the covered canvas which he is carrying. The air turns expectant. Sathedahl realizes that the next move is to be his, and the a few curious onlookers have glanced in their direction. Probably wondering what has drawn the host of their luncheon away from his mingling. He swallows, and imagines he can hear Auren, whispering in the back of his mind.  _You can do this!_

He used to be eloquent, once.

His fingers tighten once more at the edges of the portrait, before he finally musters himself, and extends it towards Thenerassan.

“I am not a painter by trade,” he admits. “But my acquaintances and bonded all agree that this piece is one of my best. Given that it was your own great beauty, glimpsed in passing, which inspired me and arrested my creative fervour, the only repayment I could think to offer was the painting itself. Though I have surely failed to do you justice - I would gift the piece to you, if you might be willing to permit it.”

He bows, and deliberately avoids paying too much mind to Thenerassan’s face or air for a moment - still mustering himself. But after a few silent seconds pass, the man closes his own grasp over the bottom of the portrait. With a flourish, Sath pulls the cover away, and then dips into his very best and most elegant bow.

Only as he is rising from it, does he dare to look at Thenerassan properly again.

The man is wide-eyed as he takes in the portrait, and whilst Sathedahl is by no means expert at deciphering his moods, he would venture to describe the air around him as pleasantly surprised. Perhaps even flattered. Lavellan looks at the artwork, too, and part of him squirms, as it always does when one of his paintings is under the scrutiny of strangers. All other artwork - his sculptures, the forms he has shaped, the body art he has done - he can muster up some indifference for. But for some reasons, showing his paintings has never failed to make him nervous.

After several moments of silence ensue, Sath clears his throat.

“I hope it does not offend?” he ventures.

Thenerassan looks up, and blinks rapidly several times. Lavellan offers him another smile.

“It is a very beautiful painting,” she decides. “I like that you depicted him in motion. I do not think I have ever seen an artist paint Papa in such a way before. It suits him.”

At her comment, Thenerassan seems to grow even more apparently pleased. When he looks at Sathedahl, then, he offers up one of his own smiles - and however pleasantly reassuring his daughter’s might be, Thenerassan’s smiles are simply  _breathtaking._  The rearrangement of his features is intensely fine, like watching a flower spin in rapid bloom, or seeing a sunset reshape the colours in the sky. Not for the first time, Sathedahl finds himself wondering what sort of spirit the man once was, too. No matter how he tries to guess, he can never narrow it down. Courage? Grace? Beauty? Boldness? So many possibilities! His smile only offers further, enthralling mystery, and emphasizes that pleasantness of his form.

“This is quite unexpected,” Thenerassan declares, and straightens a bit. Adjusting the portrait to a different angle, before he looks at Sathedahl again. “But you have paid me a massive compliment! The portrait is beautiful. It must have taken hours, and to think you say that I inspired it… you must let me compensate you in some way. For the materials, at the least!”

Sathedahl raises both hands, on more familiar territory now that his artwork is not being scrutinized, and Thenerassan’s smile is not  _quite_  so blinding.

“Never,” he insists. “A gift given in admiration can only be accepted or rejected! Though one might hope that acceptance of the gift signals, also, acceptance of the admiration.”

Thenerassan’s eyes go wide again, and he freezes, as if taken aback. Lavellan seems less caught out, though Sathedahl is uncertain of what to make of her glance at him. Clearly, though, his intentions are not…  _avidly_  accepted, and rather than give in to his potential panic, he clears his throat and attempts to rally himself. How many times has he ventured a pursuit towards a party not yet wholly decided upon the matter? More times than not. And surely, a man of Thenerassan’s calibre is constantly receiving gifts of artwork that he has inspired. It would not be a good habit for him to  _naturally presume_  that every such one came as the opening salvo of a romantic pursuit.

Sathedahl bows again.

“Whether my admiration is accepted or not, of course, is of no matter today. It is a lesser matter than my desire to gift you the painting, with earnest hopes that it will bring you happiness. I will not ask if another gift might be accepted. I will only ask if I have caused offense; and if I have, then I will trouble you no further. But, if I have not… then perhaps I may approach again…?”

Thenerassan opens his mouth, and then closes it again. His brows furrow, and he glances towards his daughter; and then the painting. And then back up, as if struck with a dilemma. Sathedahl wonders if he has gone about this all wrong, at that point. He has familiarized himself with the expectations of Imperial courtship, of course. Which is quite varied, and interesting, but also not altogether different from the clannish approach. But perhaps he managed to miss some vital context.

That would hardly be unlike him.

“Have I caused offense…?” he presses, tentatively.

Thenerassan purses his lips, and clears his throat.

“Well… well,  _no,_  not in the slightest…” he says.

That particular worry unclenches a little.

“Then perhaps I might approach you again, General? With no presumptions, of course,” he prompts. Lavellan looks as curious for her father’s answer as he himself feels. And Thenerassan takes several moments to find it. His gaze flitting about, and then seeming to recollect the luncheon going on around them as well. Gingerly, he tucks the portrait in somewhat closer to himself.

That must be a  _good_  sign… right?

“I suppose there is no reason why you should not,” he finally concludes.

Sathedahl cannot help it. The response brings a beaming smile to his own lips. Oh, of course it sounds tepid enough - but that was the very thing Auren said to him, too, the first time  _he_ accepted a portrait. And while it may prove to hold very different meaning with Thenerassan, on some level he cannot help but see it as a good omen.

“Then I will count this as a most joyous day,” he declares. “And of course, seek not to abuse such a grand privilege. My thanks for your indulgence, General Thenerassan. I will leave you to your splendid luncheon - your beauty has struck the match of inspiration within me again, and I find my hands eager to abet it. Should I find success, I will seek you out once more.”

Thenerassan, as it happens, has an  _incredibly_  fetching blush.

Lavellan clears her throat.

“I will see you out,” she offers. “Papa, would you like me to drop the painting off at home?”

Thenerassan clears his throat twice before he manages to answer, with a nod, and then a shake of his head and a sudden retraction of the acceptance.

“No, no, do not trouble yourself,” he ends up insisting. “I will set it carefully aside, I doubt anyone here would wish to hurt it. You just hurry back, when you are done. There are a few people I promised to introduce you to, and have not managed to yet.”

Lavellan agrees, and several minutes later, Sathedahl finds himself walking through the palace corridors with her again. Minus the burden of one painting, and magnified in the tumultuous feelings that are trying to twist his way through his gut. Because it was a  _success!_  Or… was it? It  _was_  one, was it not? Thenerassan accepted the painting, and seemed pleased by it. But not definitive in returning some spark of interest, either. But he was pleased! Or else Sath has managed to grievously misread the situation…

He finds himself glancing towards his escort.

She would probably know. Children often know their parents… well. Most children. Ostensibly. Sath never particularly understood his own, but then, they were much colder people than Thenerassan.

“Do you think he actually liked the painting?” he finds himself asking.

Lavellan looks at him for a moment, and then inclines her head.

“It is a lovely painting. He was flattered,” she confirms.

Sathedahl lets out a breath of relief.

“Oh, good,” he says. “Thank you for confirming that. I had thought he seemed pleased, but sometimes it is a little difficult to tell where hope and reality meet at the seams. I might confess myself a man prone to wishful thinking, but actually, I usually am a realist. It is only infatuation that tends to make me flighty and pull me closer to the Dreaming.”

Lavellan makes a sound of acknowledgement, and straightens up a bit more. Not that she needs it; she has excellent posture.

“So I read that right? You are  _pursuing_  my father?” she checks.

Sathedahl nods in admission. He would not have denied his interest even before he decided to finally make a move, and he can scarcely backtrack upon it now, to Thenerassan’s own kin, without seeming at least somewhat reprehensible. Or pathetic. Not images he aspires to on either front.

“He is a very… well, I find myself admiring him a great deal,” Sathedahl admits. “Though I can concede, there is probably not very much for him to reciprocate on. I am not angling to be presumptuous in my admiration. Only to make it known, and… see what will become of it, perhaps.”

His response must be a good one, because Lavellan’s posture relaxes a fraction more again. Not quite back to what it had been, but enough so that she does not look like she is readying herself for confrontation. It is still not quite as easy as it had been before, however.

“I will not stand to see my father submit to unwanted attentions,” she nevertheless warns him. “It is his choice how to respond, but make no mistake - if your courtesy should prove to be  _inconsistent_  on any front, I will remove you from his list of concerns myself.”

The warning is delivered very matter-of-factly.

That does nothing to diminish its effectiveness.

“You are… very protective, I see.”

“We all are,” Lavellan informs him. “And you have timed your gift very well. Though I doubt that it is an accident that you have approached right when the Spymaster is away.”

Sathedahl clears his throat.

“I am sure I do not know what you mean,” he says. “I approached when the painting was done, and when my nerves were strong; I am hardly the sort of person who might keep track of the comings and goings of such an esteemed person as Mana’Din’s own Spymaster.”

Lavellan hums at him.

“You lie almost as badly as Papa does,” she informs him.

Sath deflates, somewhat.

This woman, he decides, is very  _difficult._ He could not precisely say  _why,_  but he is absolutely convinced of it. For some reason, it just strikes him as silly to carry on with his plausible deniability now.

“Your nanae is a very intimidating person. I did not wait for their absence in order to pursue your father at a more vulnerable time, if that is what you are worried about. I only did not want to be glowered into oblivion the first time I attempted to get within a few feet of him.”

Lavellan shrugs.

“Fair enough,” she concedes. “But Nanae will not be gone forever, and if you have any intention of pursuing my father, then you will find yourself be glowered into oblivion sooner or later.  _Particularly_  if he accepts your interest. Which he may not, even if he does like your painting very much.”

Sathedahl takes it back.

This woman is not reassuring by nature. Not in the  _least._

“I am aware of the facts,” is all he can manage to say.

Fortunately, Thenerassan’s daughter seems satisfied with that. She nods to him and they fall into silence, until he finds that she has led him back towards the palace entryway again. The main one, at any rate. Sathedahl thanks her, and Lavellan treats him to a meaningful look and a nod, and leaves him to make his own way out into the front courtyard. Past the usual, busy foot traffic of the area, and down through the open gate, until he is back on Daran’s city streets again.

Uncertainty follows him, until his feet carry him home.

But when he gets there, he is scarcely past the threshold before Auren and Reputation are upon him, with questions and insights, and even despite her reservations, Reputation seems to agree with Auren when he declares that this counts as a  _resounding_  success. And, upon reflection, Sath can concede that he has seen courtships start out on far less tacitly approving notes. The element of surprise was in his hands, after all. Thenerassan could scarcely have noticed him (for all that he somehow recollected his name - and to think, Sath had nearly forgotten that in the rush of things!), and while he may have been spending some time debating the issue of his feelings, Thenerassan was only just learning of them  _now._  Of  _course_  his reaction was not entirely one of enthusiastic acceptance. What elf of experience would not require time to consider the complex matter of pursuits and admirers?

By afternoon, they are ‘celebrating’ at the nearest dining hall.

By evening, Sath finds himself in his studio again. Staring down a piece of clay, and thinking of Thenerassan’s radiant smile.

~

In the end, he does not sculpt Thenerassan’s smile, however. No bust manifests, but rather, the sculpture is a far more abstract collection of shapes and forms that nevertheless seem to evoke a sense of great happiness in their composition. Happiness, and intrigue. Sathedahl works on the project for several days, in between visiting Erua’s workspace to attend to the few duties she left him behind with, and spending time with Auren and Reputation, of course. Though his husband and their student find themselves inevitably swamped with the demands of their current project, as their small home begins to play host to a number of builders and designers, and the main room is practically overtaken by drafts.

Sathedahl’s own workspace becomes more haphazard in turn, as he has a bad habit of matching his environment. When thing are messy, he embraces the chaos; when they are tidy, he endeavours to keep them that way. It was not a trait which served him well, in the past, and even now it can sometimes prove inconvenient, as he applies himself to painting his current project, and finds that he has mislaid a good many brushes. And paints. And a pedestal, which turns out to actually be in the main room, with several architectural documents stacked on top of it.

He and Auren quibble over the disorder of their home, and Reputation joins in, exasperated with the both of them. Until finally Sathedahl ends up setting out for his next trip in a rush to avoid it all. He wraps up his sculpture and carts it off to Erua’s office, and finishes it there - under the watchful eye of several anatomy sketches and the Parts Guide, which is catalogue for spirits to use in selecting traits that are to their liking.

Under those circumstances, Sath would not be surprised if his sculpture took on an unpleasant edge. Particularly given its abstract qualities. He remains wary of the possibility. But when he finishes, it seems to have only gained a certain sense of  _movement_  again. This one more akin to flight than to locomotion. It inspires him further, and it takes only a few traditional sculpting charms to encourage several of the pieces to actually  _levitate._

The materials are not good enough to make the charms indefinite. They will wear off, sooner or later. But perhaps that might present an opportunity, too, as he thinks of visiting Thenerassan to refresh them, every few months.

Provided the man accepts this offering as well, anyway.

He is just dithering over whether or not to add a few finishing touches, when Auren comes to the office. Wearing one of his nicer long coats, and a scarf which Sath made for him during a short-lived weaving phase.

“Husband,” Sath greets.

Auren sighs at him.

“I am sorry, Sathedahl, that I took something of yours without asking leave to borrow it,” he says. “And am I apologize also for the clutter. But I will not take blame for your inability to keep your own workspace tidy. I have to work, too, and these projects are what they are. I cannot do my job without a little mess - and we cannot simply pack up and fly off and leave our messes behind every time they become overwhelming.”

Sathedahl purses his lips. No indeed, they cannot, though he finds himself itching over the allusion to the time when they could. And the comparison within it. After all, they lived a great deal of mess, for a great many years… mess which Sath can no longer recall the particulars of, thanks to Fear. Those were some of the first memories he divested himself of. The sheer, visceral  _unpleasantness_  of squalor.

“This is not an apology,” Sath declares. “You are just doing that thing where you managed to think of another argument, and you are  _pretending_  to apologize just so you can drop in one last point, and pretend you aren’t just picking the fight all over again.”

Auren folds his arms, and raises his eyebrows.

“That is  _not_  something I do,” he insists.

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

_“Yes!”_

“No, not even remotely!”

“Oh, for the…” Sath begins, and then trails off, and gives up on whatever idea he had been debating for his sculpture. He cannot even  _remember_  it now. “Husband, I love you. But you are driving me up one wall and down another, and I have no interest in talking to you until you are done with trying to argue with me.”

Auren’s lips thin with displeasure, and a familiar thread of frustration angles across their bond.

“But it is a  _valid point!”_  he insists.

Sath gets up and takes him by the arm, and ushers him back down the stairwell and towards the same entrance he came in by.

“I do not care. I am not arguing anymore; you made a mess, so then I made a mess, so then you decided the rules no longer applied and just took my things, and now I am getting anxious vapours over the state of our home. I am positive Reputation wants to hang us both, so, until you plan on  _tidying up,_  I am going to be avoiding it. Do all your messy work to your heart’s content - and then come and find me when it is over.”

Auren turns, and looks at him; and sighs. His apology does not escape his lips - but it does make itself known in other ways.

“I do not want you to avoid our  _home,”_  he insists.

Sath relents, at the very first sign of genuine contrition, and leans in to press a kiss to his husband’s lips.

“I won’t stay away entirely,” he says. “You know that. And you happen to be working too hard to dote on me anyway. Or to let me dote on you, for that matter. So I will just… do other things for a while.”

Auren lets out a huff of breath through his nose, and then tilts his head and steals another kiss.

“Will you stop being angry with me?” he checks.

“I already finished that,” Sathedahl ruefully admits. “What about you, though? Still angry with me?”

“I was annoyed, at best,” Auren tells him, a little more gently. “Not angry. Not really. I just… felt guilty, I suppose. Because I do know how this usually goes, and I did it anyway.”

“We do tend to get carried away, don’t way?” Sath muses, and settles into the familiarity of reconciliation. Auren chuckles at him.

“We do,” he agrees, and then glances meaningfully up at the work space - and, most likely, its contents. “Though if you should find somewhere else to spend an evening or two, I only ask that you let me know. And then tell me how it goes.”

Sath snorts.

“Dear heart, do you really think I am going to him over  _that_  fast?” he counters.

“How would I know? Some types move fast, some types move slow. Some last years and others blow by like the breeze. Are you telling me you would not go to bed with the man if he marched right up and asked you today?” Auren replies, archly.

…He supposes he can concede that point.

“I would. But, he will not,” he nevertheless explains. “He is not that sort. It will be a long courtship or none at all, I expect.”

“Hm,” Auren replies, and then shrugs. “Well, you would know better than I.”

Theoretically, that is true. Though Sathedahl does not suppose he really  _does_  know for certain, what Thenerassan might prefer. Perhaps some of the reason for the perception of his relationship with the Spymaster is owed more to a predisposition towards discreet flings, than open relationships. Or perhaps it truly is a closed matter, and a tragic waste, and the man’s reservations about receiving Sath’s gift were owed to his confusion over the attempt itself.

He considers the matter even after Auren has gone back home, and left him to return to his sculpture. Which, he know decides, having stepped back and forgotten about it for a bit, seems quite finished. Anything more would make it too busy, he determines.

A little rooting around, and he manages to uncover a box tall enough to hold it. Sath pads the interior, and very carefully lowers his tribute into the container. He double-checks that it is not too wobbly, and then seals it in, and hefts it up. Then he takes it along with him, in a fit of determination, and sets out for the palace.

There are more looks directed towards him than before, this time. A smart-looking woman, in a dark and plain but very well-made set of gear, approaches him as he navigates the halls towards the General’s rooms.

“Packages must go through security inspection, before they are delivered to the palace interior,” she informs him.

“Oh,” Sath replies, unsteadily. The sculpture is not precisely  _light,_  and while it had not burdened him too badly on the way, thanks to a levitation spell, he is getting tired on both magical and physical fronts. But he finds himself leery of handing the box over to this person, too.

“Well, I just… it is an admirer’s gift, for General Thenerassan. I brought one for him before…” he attempts to explain.

The woman nods at him.

“We know,” she says.

_We?_

“Who is-”

“Palace security,” she answers, before he can finish asking. “Agent Lavellan informed us that you threatened to bring more.”

“Threatened?!” Sath asks, aghast at the phrasing.

The woman seems to reconsider it, or at least, she tilts her head a bit and glances at him with a little less cool detachment.

“Sorry. Announced an intention to,” she amends. “It is not a problem, Sathedahl. We only need to inspect the parcel, and make certain you are not transporting anything that is banned or that might violate the security of the palace. Follow me, if you will.”

On that note, the woman turns, and begins to walk back down the corridor he just came up by. Sathedahl finds himself looking longingly towards the opposite end, for a moment. But then he relents, and falls into step behind his new escort. Whoever she is. Palace security?  _Agent_  Lavellan? Knowing his name? That would make her one of the Spymaster’s people, then.

Is there some mandate that they all interfere with Thenerassan’s admirers as much as possible?

Does Uthvir perhaps know that their spouse is several cuts above them, and are they endeavouring to keep him all to themselves by the underhanded means of cutting off any attempts at outside courtship? He has heard that this can happen in the empire, among possessive, high-ranking elves. Greedy, covetous types.

The agent does not make small talk, as they pass through several corridors. Sath’s arms are beginning to feel like lead by the time they reach and unfamiliar segment of the palace; full of workspaces, by the looks of it. Something managerial or administrative. A lot more people look at him, here - enough to make him feel distinctly nervous, as he is directed to place his parcel onto a special stand, and then take a few steps back.

“Darenan,” the agent who escorted him calls. “I have a parcel for inspection, headed for the Spymaster’s quarters.”

“Right! Two minutes,” another elf calls back, from where he is busy accepting several small phials from another. He nods at the other elf, and pockets the phials, before he heads over.

Stylistically, the man has modeled himself after his employer. Which is a shame, because Sathedahl would venture to say that he has some of the finest cheekbones he has ever witnessed - especially on a Waking-born elf. He also has a very pleasing stride. Long and graceful, and done no favours by the ugly armour he is wearing, as he approaches them with a reserved air.

“Sathedahl, hm?” he greets.

Sath, who is  _entirely sure_  that he has never met this man before, blinks.

“Er, yes. How do you know my name?” he wonders.

“Because it is my business to,” Darenan declares. “Did you think you would not make yourself a person of interest, when you approached the husband of Mana’Din’s Spymaster? General Thenerassan is respectable enough that we would take special note of any would-be suitors as a matter of course, but anything which might breach the Spymaster’s security is worth exceptional scrutiny. Particularly given your  _opportunistic_  timing.”

His tone is derisive, and Sath finds himself bristling at it.

“I assure you, there is nothing dangerous in my gifts,” he replies, tersely.

Darenan remains reserved, but a certain quirk to his eyebrow implies some derision.

“That is for us to decide, according to palace security. Which you would know, if you had bothered to take security into your considerations at all before embarking on this… venture.”

Sathedahl endeavours not to seethe.

Sometimes living in Daran is easy enough that he can forget that they really are all cogs in the Empire’s machinery. Trapped up in odd systems and subject to the whims of ‘higher ranking’ individuals, with a host of expectations and requirements that serve no purpose except to permit the abuses of power around them. Security has its place, of course, but he doubts it need be extended to something as plain and simple as a courtship gift. What do they expect? That he would obviously waltz into the palace, carrying a box full of explosives, and then somehow achieve some dastardly plan that would not simply ruin his life, and implicate his loved ones?

No, surely they suspect no such thing. All they want to do is rattle and intimidate at the behest of their  _superior._

He has to remind himself how inescapable it all really is, and even dwells upon it a little, frowning his way through the spells that are cast, and resisting the urge to protest when the box is opened. It does not go by quickly. In fact, it takes more than an hour before his sculpture is seemed ‘safe’. By then his mood is ruined, and he feels deflated and ill-at-ease, even as he carries the sculpture back down several corridors, and off towards Thenerassan’s chambers again.

So he is not at his best, all factors of the day considered, when he nearly knocks right into the man himself as he emerges into the corridor right in front of him.

Sathedahl halts as quickly as he can, so as to avoid hitting him. His feet slip a little on the hallway floor, and his arms move reflexively in an effort to re-balanced himself, and before he can properly appreciate what has happened or think to stop it, the box containing the sculpture tumbles from his grasp. He feels a moment of relief, as the burden is lifted from his arms - and then nothing but horror, as it smacks into the floor, and he hears the distinctive  _crack_  of something inside breaking.

“Oh no,” he breathes.

And General Thenerassan is right.  _There._

Watching with his own eyes wide.

He is very finely dressed for an evening, too, in a gown that transitions from a blossom-y yellow at the top, to a deep sunset purple at the bottom. His hair is modestly done up, but given the loveliness of it, does not take much to still look radiant and more than sufficient for an occasion. And there is purple shadow on his eyelids. Faint but shimmering, underscored by a few delicate hints of colour on his cheeks. His forearms are flattered by a set of brassy bracelets, too.

Sathedahl manages to gape at his dropped box, and then at Thenerassan, and then back at the box again.

“My sincerest apologies,” he finally manages. “I was bringing… that is to say, that was meant to be for you.”

Thenerassan’s brow furrows.

“Oh dear,” he replies. “Sathedahl. I had no idea you were coming! Forgive me, I should have exercised more caution in opening the door.”

“No, no, it is my failing - I should have… sent word, I suppose?” Sath replies, wondering what he should do. Retrieve the box, certainly. It has most assuredly broken - he heard the sound and there is nothing else in the box  _to_  break, except the sculpture - but he feels tired enough that some spare corner of his thoughts tells him just to leave it, too. To leave it and leave the palace and leave Thenerassan, and go sit in mud pile somewhere, with all the other sorry messes of the world.

So he hesitates, and does so for long enough that it is  _Thenerassan_  who reaches down, and begins to carefully lift the box back up.

“Oh, no!” he protests, moving at once to take it from him, then. “I am certain it broke, I absolutely must repair it before you lay eyes on it. It would be a travesty, otherwise. The work barely met the grandeur of your smile; broken, it would only reflect some kind of insult, or mockery. And I would not have that.”

“Oh, hush,” Thenerassan says, to his surprise. “It may not be a bad break. Let’s take it inside, and we can see the damage. Perhaps it only needs a quick fix. There are some tools about, I am certain…”

Before Sathedahl can manage any further protestations, then, Thenerassan lifts the box as if it were weightless, and aways with it back into his rooms.

With only a moment more to spare for hesitation, Sath follows him inside.

The front room of Thenerassan’s chambers is airy and bright, and leads straight towards the back of the chambers. He can tell, because the windows along the far wall look out towards a private garden. The furnishings are nicer than the ones in Sath’s own home, but not by as wide a margin as he might suspect. There is a fair amount of leather, and a… weapon’s rack, within sight. A pleasant little sitting area awaits, with a book resting atop a small table. Thenerassan lifts it up and tucks it into a nearby drawer, before he can get much of a look at it.

He replaces it with the box, carrying it the same way it had landed.

“Should I set it down differently…?” he asks.

Sathedahl recollects himself, and after a moment, shakes his head.

“No, but… let me look, please. As I said, I could not bear to do you the insult.”

“I would take no insult,” Thenerassan insists. “But if it is more comfortable for you, then I shall avert my gaze. But I promise, I am not so lacking in imagination that I cannot estimate what an object  _should_  look like, nor appreciate that a broken facade would not reflect an artist’s intentions very well.”

Sath blinks, and tries not to fluster at the man’s graciousness.

“I never to imply a lack of imagination,” he promises. “Indeed, you must have a surplus of it, for the air around you to radiate with such inspiring qualities.”

That seems to catch  _Thenerassan,_  then, and he can at least take some pleasure in that.

It dies rather swiftly when he opens the box, however.

As he had feared, while the floating pieces are find, the rest of it is cracked right through the middle. That is not a quick repair job. That is not a repair job at all; the only recourse would be to remake the entire middle piece. He lets out a breath, and then quickly closes the box again.

“I fear I must disappoint your optimism, but the piece is ruined,” he admits.

“Oh, no,” Thenerassan laments.

Sathedahl sighs again, before turning back towards him.

“If there is some consolation, it is at least that you seem genuinely disappointed. Not that I would wish to bring disappointment; but I might hope that you were eager to see it?” he says, unable to keep the ruefulness from his tone.

Again, though, Thenerassan hesitates. His brow remains furrowed, as his gaze flits away - and the returns to Sathedahl, as if by some unspoken, internal obligation.

…Oh.

“Sathedahl…” the man begins.

“You are not interested,” he surmises, and spares him the need to find the words for it.

Thenerassan lifts a hand, and rubs at his chest somewhat. It seems a habitual gesture of worry.

“It is not quite that,” he says. “I… well, truth be told, I think you are quite handome. And silver-tongued. I loved the painting you made, and by all accounts, you seem to be someone who is both admirable and interesting. I have not felt my heart stutter so over a person I barely know in a very long time, and it was a refreshing novelty to realize that even still  _could.”_

Sathedahl blinks.

“Then… you are not rejecting my pursuit, yet?” he concludes. Because those certainly do not sound like rejections.

But Thenerassan shakes his head. Glancing at the box.

Does he mean to reject him over  _this?_

“The truth, Sathedahl, is that… it does not matter how marvelous you are, or how interested I am. I… mulled over this matter, and the only conclusion I can truly draw is that I am not interested in being with anyone other than my spouse. I know it seems silly, but the thought of entertaining someone else’s courtship feels… wrong, to me,” he explains.

Sath cannot keep the confusion from showing.

“Because they would be displeased by it…?” he ventures, tentatively.

Thenerassan shakes his head again, however.

“Because  _I_  would be,” he says. “I would be displeased by it. You must forgive me, Sathedahl. There is nothing wrong with you. And I do not think I could have realized the truth about my feelings if there had been. Under different circumstances, I would have accepted. But I love my spouse, and I am quite satisfied with having only them. I do not know if that will ever change. But I suspect not.”

For a moment, the two of them simply regard one another in awkward silence. The box and its broken contents sitting conspicuously on the too-small table.

Then Sathedahl recollects himself, and drops into a bow.

“As rejections go, that is probably the nicest one I have ever received,” he declares, through the disappointment.

“I mean no offense,” Thenerassan assures him.

“No, no, none taken,” Sath insists, with a wave of his hand. It would seem the rumours were true, then. The relationship is closed - Thenerassan’s heart is a fixated one, and whatever the waste he might perceive in it, the loss is his own.

Perhaps on some level, he has always been aware. Perhaps that is why his thoughts towards the Spymaster have never been kind - even when he dislikes someone, Sath can admit, he is not typically so  _petty_  about it.

“You will forgive me, if some part of me cannot help but continue to admire you?” he asks. “And be inspired by you?”

Thenerassan looks surprised; and then just slightly regretful.

“I have no idea how why you should continue, but I would hardly stop you,” he says. “Only, I must discourage the notion that anything… that anything could come to fruition between us.”

Sathedahl considers the matter for a moment. His limbs tired, his tribute broken; and his intended full of polite rejections. His home is a mess, and Reputation is probably still irritated with him, and Auren, though likely to be sympathetic, is still consumed with work. Which Sath will not have to distract himself until Erua returns, for his own part.

But…

His husband was right. He had missed being a lover; even one whose regard was not always returned.

When he looks at Thenerassan again, it is with a smile.

“Well of course I would continue,” he ventures. “Admiration does not only come when it carries the thought of reciprocation. But, also, I am pleased enough to have made you question your desires. At least you have ably returned my flattery, hm?”

Thenerassan looks at him a moment more, and then manages a smile. His chin lifts a little; and the arch angle suits him, as most seem to.

“I see your are the type who cannot help but flirt,” he declares.

“Only if compliments constitute flirtation,” Sathedahl replies. Then he gives the ominous box one more look, and faces the inevitable as he lifts it up again. “Though, I think, perhaps, you were heading somewhere? And it would be wise of me to depart, on this note.”

“I was only going to dinner,” Thenerassan declares. He frowns at the slight strain in Sathedahl, and then reaches over, and determinedly takes the box from him. Not that Sath resists, much, but he is uncertain of what to make of the move.

“Come with me,” Thenerassan invites. “You can take this home after you have rejuvenated yourself, some. The food here is good, and surely we can find less  _risque_  subjects to discuss than my ‘inspiring’ good looks. You have a husband, do you not? You could tell me about him. And I would certainly be pleased to talk about Uthvir. I am not very good at being apart from them, I’m afraid.”

Sath has to contemplate that offer for a moment, if only to parse how it is still not an acceptance of his courtship.

But plainly, it is not.

“I suppose, that… sounds pleasant,” he agrees. Not that he is eager to hear more about the Spymaster. But perhaps, in retrospect, he owes them a fairer shake - if Thenerassan is so freely taken with them. And of course, he would never turn down an opportunity to talk about Auren. There is no lack of virtues to extol upon.

The General even takes his arm, in a friendly manner, and sets the box down by the door, as he draws him out with him.

“My thanks,” Thenerassan declares. “You are kind to indulge me.”

“I must confess, I had been looking forward to indulging you in many ways,” he replies.

It earns him a reproachful look, that is nevertheless delightful.

“Forgive me. I will have to work on reducing my flirtation,” he concedes.

“Hm. Why I do think you will not work very  _hard?”_  Thenerassan quips back, and in an act of pure cruelty, forces him to swallow any possible retort on the subject of  _hardness._

This may end up being a very awkward evening.

But nothing ventured, nothing gained.

 

~

 

Thenvunin almost cannot believe he is doing this.

It occurs to him, as Uthvir’s legs are wrapped around his waist, and their breath is ragged in his ear, and he has one hand braced against the wall behind them as the other grips their thigh, that this is a bit peculiar. But then he finishes sinking into them, through the opening creating by frantically rearranged clothing and few discarded pieces of both of their outfits, and his thoughts stutter away. Scattering even more when Uthvir’s nails dig into the fabric at his shoulders - hard enough that he hears a distinctive  _rip_  from the fabric - and  _growls_  his name at him.

His hips volunteer a few shallow thrusts, still a little uncertain at the angle. Uthvir had wrapped their legs fully around him, but they have relaxed their grip just enough to let him actually… well… get to where they are, so to speak. He is half convinced that they mean to tighten their hold on him again, though, and after a moment they actually do; clutching between their thighs, and biting his bottom lip with another low sound that he could describe as purely  _lustful._

“Fuck me,” they demand.

“Do  _not_  be crass,” Thenvunin insists, even as he feels a thrill at their perpetual inappropriateness.

They pull back just enough to look him in the eye, and their muscles  _tighten_  around him in a way that makes his knees go inconveniently weak. He can almost pick up on their sense of mischief, even despite all the distractions, before they tip their head back, and trail one hand up to press at the skin behind his ears. Teasing the sharp tips of their nails.

“Please make  _vigorous love_  to me,” they amend, with a quirk of their lips.

Thenvunin pinches their thigh - not that it does much, through the leather they are wearing - and obligingly rocks his hips. At least, insofar as he  _can._

“You are gripping me too tightly to  _move,”_  he points out, between his own increasingly stuttered breaths.

Uthvir smirks at him.

“Am I?” they purr. “What I shame I have no intention of loosening my grip…”

Thenvunin snorts at them. If they are expecting him to get  _inventive_  then they have probably overestimated his abilities - he can admit that. They are much too close and much too clothed, and he has not had nearly enough preparation time, to begin attempting one of their  _lewd magics._  But he does manage another slight thrust, and after a few moments, he realizes that shifting the angle a little further can get him enough room to actually start moving in earnest. He draws Uthvir’s legs up even higher, gets their thighs more around his waist, and then nearly loses his balance again before he settles into the new rhythm.

At which point his thoughts fly away once more, as he thrusts and Uthvir nips at his earlobe, and his focus narrows to the feel of them sliding around him. The familiar press of them in his arms, and the rising thrum of sensations building up in his every sense. He shifts on an inward stroke and he feels Uthvir’s spark of pleasure, rising up from parts he does not have - has never had - but somehow the sensation translates perfectly. He gasps their name, more caught up than even they are, and in an unexpected moment of empathetic desires, he finds himself setting the sort of rhythm that  _he_  would like. Pressing them tight against the wall, and trying in fervent thrusts to hit that same point again. To make it feel the way he aches for it to feel; the way they have gotten so good at giving it to him.

“Come for me,” he says, with a snap of his hips. He can tell they are closed to it, that he is getting them far more on edge than he can usually manage to, when they are still mostly dressed. He stops thinking, and loses himself in the dynamic he knows - even if the roles are typically quite reversed.

“Come for me, Uthvir, my lovely heart. You feel so good. I cannot possibly last, cannot possibly, you need to come because I will not do it before you do, this time. I am just going to have to keep on taking you until you give in, so  _give in,_  so give in and give to me and  _come…”_

Uthvir curses, and kisses him fiercely. Teeth catching against his lip, hard enough to draw blood. Rough and ragged and  _oh,_  Thenvunin thinks he  _really_  likes this. Likes the way that they have lost some of their restraint - well, he always likes that, but he had not realized it could happen from  _this_  direction, too. They lick the droplet of blood from his lips, sink their nails into his shoulders.

“ _Harder,”_  they demand.

Thenvunin is not at all certain he can manage that, but he has barely contemplated it before they abruptly shift gears. Their legs let him go, lowering hurriedly back to the floor - still careful enough not to injure him, but so quickly that he ends up sliding out of then and nearly thrusts against the wall beside their hip. Before they catch him, anyway, their grip shifting and their aura snapping tight to them. The bond still heated from lust, but also radiating a sudden unease.

It is the sort of unexpected change of pace that leaves him feeling quite literally dizzy.

“What…?” he begins. His stomach lurches as he considers that he might have done something wrong - might have hurt them or somehow missed an important cue. He blinks, dazed and still heated, but Uthvir is already righting their askew clothing. They snatch up their belt and snap it back on, and then open up the large cabinet next to Thenvunin, and with almost-embarrassing (but really also  _still very arousing_ ) strength, pick him up and put him in it.

“Mana’Din,” they explain, before they shut the door him.

Thenvunin blinks. Caught in the dark with his… with certain parts still exposed, and painfully hard, and his own outfit hopelessly torn and askew, as several odd pieces of armour press against his back.

He swallows.

Right. Because, they were in the office, and Mana’Din was supposed to come for a meeting with Uthvir, and one thing led to another and there  _should have_  been time, but if she had decided to arrive early - and sometimes she does, really, she is not much for dithering - then it would be… then, yes, they could not simply ignore the door, because she would be able to get in anyway, because she is a Leader of the People and this is her palace and these are her territories, and Thenvunin would most assuredly  _not_  want her to catch the two of them in such a position, she is their daughter even if she isn’t and so obviously Uthvir did the right thing, but…

It still leaves him standing for an awkward, undetermined length of time, utterly unable to touch himself because  _Mana’Din_  is in the next room, and yet, still thoroughly aroused. Interrupted.

He swallows, and wonders if his breathing is too loud. Holding it for a moment, he strains his ears for voices. He cannot hear anything, but then, Uthvir probably enchanted this cabinet. Likely to serve as a hiding spot, in fact, though they were probably imagining hiding from things like assassins, and not interruptions to inappropriate office place affections.

…Thenvunin  _had_  wondered why this cabinet was so tall, though.

He is just beginning to feel truly frayed when the door opens again, and he slumps in relief.

“She is gone?” he checks.

Uthvir nods, and then pulls him back out into the room. Thenvunin barely has a chance to blink before he finds his own back pressed up against the wall; Uthvir’s hot breath against his neck to only warning he gets before they bite him, and close one hand over his length.

 _Oh, but I did not make the_ m…is Thenvunin’s trailing thought, before they firmness of their grip and frayed edges of their nerves pull him well over his own edge. He gasps, and clutches them. Feeling their answering satisfaction, in a rush that wipes away any disappointment he might have felt. His nerves fray only a little - their not-quite-daughter was  _just in this room_  - but Uthvir runs their hands over him and the gesture works to soothe, as they linger in the afterglow. Tangled limbs and ragged breaths, and Thenvunin once again much more of a mess than Uthvir.

Though, he notes, they  _feel_  quite ragged around the edges. And when they look at him, their gaze is still quite fervent.

“I will get you a change of clothes,” they say. “And then we are going to find some place more private, and try  _that_  again.”

Thenvunin swallows.

“Try… what in particular?” he wonders.

Their lips curl, in an expression of pure trouble.

“Your very sweet attempt at dirty talk, of course,” they say.

Ah.

He was afraid that would be it.

(But not really, he thinks, as he somehow manages to shove himself into a spare set of clothes, and neatly folds his other outfit for mending. Not really afraid, not at all.)

 

~

 

Uthvir is fairly certain that they meant to do something other than ogle Thenvunin, a moment ago.

 _Reviewing recruits,_  Fear helpfully reminds them. Ah. Right, yes, they are at this particular set of practice grounds to watch the new potentials for apprenticeship duties as they demonstrate their sparring skills. Definitely not here for Thenvunin, then. Shirtless Thenvunin, in his leggings that look practically  _painted on,_  with his hair neatly braided back and his gaze narrow in focus, as he beats not one but  _two_  practice partners soundly into the ground.

Their libido has been as unruly these days as Thenvunin generally claims it to be, they think, because it takes a considerable amount of effort on their part to banish to temptation to walk up behind him. Purr a compliment into his ear, and press themselves flush against the curvature of his backside. Such a victorious spar should merit  _some_  reward, after all. Uthvir glances at his leggings, and thinks of how easily that material would rip beneath their claws. They think of leaving most of it on him; only tearing open enough space to access certain parts…

Thenvunin’s face is flushed, when he meets their gaze.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow at him, and drags themselves forcibly back to reality. To the crowded and quite busy practice and training grounds, and the task that they actually  _cannot_ simply put aside for the moment. They still feel a deep, lustful heat pulsing beneath their skin - and something of it must show in their countenance, or else Thenvunin has had the same idea, because the amount of desire spilling out from him is enough to have him hurrying conspicuously from the field.

Uthvir permits themselves a single sigh, before forcing their attention back to their duties.

Their blood is up, though, and they find that it is disinclined to settle again through the remaining hours of their work day. They manage to assess the new recruits, but also decide to schedule a few more tests for them - for when they are more clear-headed. And they take several reports, and quell their impatience, and try not to think of Thenvunin’s chest rising and falling with his breaths. His shoulders straining. The muscles of his thighs clenching beneath the flimsy fabric of his leggings…

They do not achieve as much success as they would like.

By the time they manage to get back to their office, they are seriously considering locking the door and trying to take the edge off. They had inadvertently projected some of their  _frustrations_  during one of the agents’ reports, and poor Darenan had looked like he was near to fainting. That man had a hair-trigger, though, nearly as sensitive as Thenvunin’s. Uthvir might find it appealing, if they had the attention to spare for such things.

As it stands, when they get back to their office to find Thenvunin sitting on their desk - still wearing his practice gear, no less - there is a solid minute where they swear their higher thought processes just turn off.

They retain enough cognitive functionality to lock the door behind them, at least.

“You look  _far_  too tempting,” they inform Thenvunin, in a voice that is all purr. His throat bobs, and his hands clench more tightly against the edge of the desk. But after a moment, he lifts his chin, and gives them a challenging look.

“So what do you intend to do about it?” he asks them.

It is all the invitation Uthvir needs at this point.

They rush him. Pulling him off of the desk, and then bending him over it. His gasp lingers in their ears as they indulge themselves, and tear slashes through the material of his leggings. Drawing scratches across the skin of his thighs as well, as they grind themselves against his backside. The air ignites, a few visible sparks flaring above them, and Uthvir feels their arousal double.

Thenvunin curses as they thrust their hips against him. Their own arousal strains uncomfortably in the confines of their pants, but they do not step back or relinquish their hold on him enough to free themselves. Instead they rock their hips against him, as if they are trying to fuck him through their layers, and sink their teeth into the back of his shoulder. Another strangled oath escapes him, and the desk creaks, straining as they grind him into it.

“Irresistible,” they growl at him. “You are the most irresistible being, Thenvunin,  _Thenvunin._  I am going to fuck you until you cannot  _move.”_

They thrust against him again, and elicit another gasp as they tear away his belt, and press a second bite mark into his skin. They have no desire to loosen their grasp on him, so they turn to other methods to evoke sensations. Rocking their hips and reaching for their magic, for the tingling sensation of blood pumping below skin, and pressing against their tongue. They molest the fresh bite marks, and summon tendrils of magic, sneaking a small one down between the cheeks still pressed flush against their crotch; wrapping another against Thenvunin’s own straining member. They reach, too, for that perilous sense of connection between them. Exploiting it to feel the rush of sensation, of fervent desire, while they pin Thenvunin’s wrists and rut unabashedly against him.

The arousal in the air is thick enough to  _cut._  It is dizzying, and Uthvir thinks that if they did not have Fear to anchor them, they would be utterly lost to it. They can feel Thenvunin’s arousal, feel him twisting in their grasp as their magic penetrates him and wraps around him. It is not enough. But they do not want to stop or move or pause, either, so they make do, pressing to the limits of what they can without better supplies. The desk strains again and Thenvunin’s hands scrabble at its surface, trying to move towards himself. But Uthvir has not left him enough room. They close a hand around his braid, and pull his head back as they  _thrust_  against him again; timing it with the movement of their magic, and bringing one of his ears near enough for their teeth to graze it.

 _“Uthvir,”_  he gasps.

They growl back at him, and dig their claws into his thigh, and relish the way they can feel the pinpricks of pain shoot straight to his groin. One more thrust of their hips, and he comes in an electric rush that brightens the air around them again, and steals their breath for a moment.

This time, though, they do not tip over the edge along with him. They think, somehow, that they might be too wound up to come. Too driven to keep at him, to even contemplate being  _done_  yet. But they relish the way he trembles and cries out again.

His knees have gone weak, though, so Uthvir finally shifts their hold on him enough to put him back on top of the desk. They run a hand up and down his thigh, still simmering as they press a kiss behind his ear, and feel the hammering rhythm of his heart as if it is beating against the inside of their own ribs.

“Wait here,” they instruct, and then pull themselves away long enough to retrieve some ‘emergency’ necessities from a locked desk drawer.

They gather enough of their cognitive faculties to review their schedule for the afternoon. But nothing seems pressing enough to merit much more than activating a few more locks on the doors, and then carrying on.

~

Lasmami stares at the doorway to the Spymaster’s offices.

Two hours ago, the Spymaster had ordered them to bring the latest reports to their desk, post haste. They had seemed somewhat agitated, and preoccupied with their thoughts. So Lasmami had hurried to do as ordered, just in case they were on the cusp of some sort of disaster.

But they must have taken too long, they think, because when they finally arrived at the offices, the door was locked and warded. With the Spymaster’s personal wards, no less. No knocks were answered. Lasmami had left, and come back three times now, but the door is still sealed.

They are just beginning to consider going to find someone higher up on the chain of command, to find out if there is another desk they should take the reports to, when the seals on the door finally drop.

Lasmami stands at attention as they hear the latches click open.

General Thenerassan emerges from the offices. He looks flushed. His hair is in slight disarray, and he is wearing an evening robe. At least, Lasmami  _thinks_  it is an evening robe. They do not really keep on top of the trends, however, which might explain the scarf he is wearing with it as well. They offer the General a bow. He must have been in conference with the Spymaster on some important matter; a note of nervousness sinks into his aura, even now.

“Good afternoon, General,” Lasmami greets.

“…Agent,” General Thenerassan replies, before hurrying off down the hallway.

Lasmami watches him go for a moment, before the Spymaster comes to the doorway.

“Something you needed, Lasmami?” they ask. Their frantic mood seems to have lessened considerably, to the point where Lasmami would venture to describe them as  _languid._

“I apologize, Spymaster. I brought the reports as quickly as I could, but by the time I reached your offices, the door was locked,” they explain, and offer the paperwork to them now. The Spymaster nods, and does not seem inclined to scold them.

“Thank you, Lasmami, you did perfectly well,” they say, instead - so genuinely that Lasmami feels almost flustered at the approval. They had been expecting a scolding, but something unexpected must have come up instead.

“Is there anything else you need, Spymaster?” they check. Intrigues may be afoot.

The Spymaster nods.

“Make certain General Thenerassan is not bothered on his way back to our chambers,” they instruct. “And then you may consider your duties done for the day.”

Lasmami offers the Spymaster another bow and nod in acknowledgement. The Spymaster must be worried about another attack on their husband.

“No one will trouble him,” they promise, before heading back out.

It earns them one of the Spymaster’s rare, genuine smiles of approval.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Uthvir has been in Arlathan on business for less than a day, and Lavellan has been back at the Hidden Estate for a little over a month, when one of Uthvir’s agents takes Thenvunin aside and informs him that there is a message marked ‘urgent’ from the estate.

The letter is written in Lavellan’s hand, and is addressed to both himself and Uthvir. Thenvunin thanks the agent who had brought it straight to him, and then hurries back to his chambers to read it in privacy. He activates the wards Uthvir showed him, to ensure there is no eavesdropping. But the letter is entirely written, not spelled, and does not begin any sort of narration either way.

Instead, he finds himself settling into a chair with a relatively short - but still concerning - missive.

_Dear Nanae and Papa,_

_I am writing to you in haste to request your assistance with a personnel matter at the estate. Some of our new residents are having troubles adjusting to their current duties, and our administration is too busy to cater to their particular needs. Any advice or insights you could provide on how to restructure the situation would be invaluable. I know how busy you both are, but as a favour to me, I hope you can spare the time._

_Love,_

_Lavellan._

It does not take a considerable amount of insight, Thenvunin thinks, to realize that their daughter is choosing her words carefully. ‘Personnel matter’ - new people at the estate. They are having troubles with some new arrivals? And Lavellan thinks that the two of them might be able to help with it.

…Or,  _one_  of them, it will have to be. Uthvir has only just gone to the city, and planned to be there for four days, to deal with further complications from having one of the information lines compromised. Not something that they could afford to drop at a moment’s notice. Thenvunin was supposed to help oversee some matters here in their absence, and had promised not to stray far from the securities they established - they worry, though they don’t usually say it so directly, especially when things have been compromised.

But this…

Thenvunin can  _hardly_  leave Lavellan hanging out to dry. Especially when there are so many terrible options for what could be going wrong. All sorts of people might come through  _that_ eluvian, after all, and with Mana’Din in talks with the other leaders, there is no one else to answer.

So really, there is no question of what Thenvunin must do.

Putting the letter away, he hurries through the necessary arrangements. He has meetings to cancel and events to reschedule, and not knowing how long he may be gone for, he errs on the side of caution and pushes a week’s worth of events back. Or delegates them elsewhere, when he can. He gives Lasmami a missive to take to Uthvir, explaining where he has gone, and leaves a few sensitive matters in Inava’s hands, and for the rest he calls in favours from some advisors who owe them to him, and makes some careful assignments to the Daran city guard. He packs up a travel bag, and accepts an escort for half of the trip; but he makes the final leg of it on his own.

The estate is, on record, private and exclusive, with only particular individuals permitted to enjoy its luxurious facilities.

In reality, of course, it is  _secure,_  and only approved of persons are allowed to get within a certain distance of it. Thenvunin could not bring an armed escort all the way to the gates even if he wanted to; the precautions and check points along the way would stop them. Unless they were all qualified to pass through, of course.

Nevertheless he makes good time, moving mainly through the crossroads, and avoiding any unnecessary detours or pitstops. By accessing the right roads and making use of one of Uthvir’s shortcuts, he manages to arrive at the estate just after nightfall. Tired and road-weary, his skin a little heavy and tingling from so much time spent in the crossroads, and from having to pass through so many magical checkpoints.

But he cannot deny a certain relief, upon passing through the last gate, and finding that the estate does not seem to be rife with chaos.

Daran may be the capital of Mana’Din’s territories, but the Hidden Estate is, in a certain sense, its busiest port. The estate itself is large, and frequently being expanded upon. It is home to some of the most effective environmental charms in the territories. Thenvunin would know - he oversaw their installation himself, back when the initial building was first under construction. Outside the estate walls is the village, which had once been an emergency campground, and is now a small settlement, with its own walls and buildings, residents and amenities. But there are still campgrounds, too. The estate population tends to fluctuate wildly, depending on the various projects and campaigns being waged through the World Eluvian. Thenvunin has seen the campgrounds emptied and dismantled, only to be set back up again a scant month later, hectic and harried as people try to find places for refugees from ruined worlds - or even just from particularly ruinous situations  _within_  their worlds.

The campgrounds look to be full again, spilling out towards the mountains, and the thick wilderness which shields the estate, and also provides some useful hunting grounds for feeding its populace. There is very little farmland near to the grounds. It helps keep things hidden, to not have that much open space, but it also means that most of the estate’s food supply must be shipped in from other parts of territories. Another expense attributed to absurd luxury. Thenvunin supposes it says something that even with refugees sometimes numbering in the thousands, he has rarely seen the estate expenses exceed those of Mythal’s own palace.

The village and estate lights are still bright, and several fires burn in the campgrounds. Thenvunin is greeted by an estate guard he recognizes, but not well enough to put a name to their face. Though, given the locale, it is also possible that they have never met before. The guard accepts his security token, though, and when he asks after Lavellan, finds a round-eared youth to lead Thenvunin up from the grounds and into one of the estate archives. Lavellan Is there, sitting with a white-haired woman whom Thenvunin does not know.

She stands when she sees him, glancing just once over his shoulder, before she comes and accepts his offered hug of greeting. The air around her is tense with a kind of weary sorrow. A badly-disguised grief, that has Thenvunin checking her over for injuries, and fretting. She cut her hair short again, he notes, and her muscles feel tired when she squeezes him back.

“Is Nanae alright?” she asks him, quietly.

“Just fine,” he assures her. “But they were gone off to Arlathan when I got your message, on business. So I came on my own.”

Lavellan sighs, grateful but still concerned, he can tell. The fair-haired woman at the table regards them with some solemn interest, as her fingers twitch beside the book resting before her. She is dressed in light clothing, and looks as though she has been recently healed.

“What is going on?” Thenvunin asks after a moment. He can hardly help if he does not know even that much, after all.

Lavellan takes a step back, and beckons him over to the table with her. There are other people in the archives, but not many. It is late, and he suspects most of the available people are helping to settle in a new round of refugees.

“This is Sulvuna,” Lavellan says, introducing him to the white-haired woman. “She is one of our latest guests, seeking refuge. The last pathway we managed to explore led us to a world where Falon’Din was the sole ruler of an empire on the verge of total collapse.”

Thenvunin shudders at the implication. Sulvuna’s aura is quite closed, and her expression is difficult to read. But he has come to recognize the signs of someone who is adjusting to the odd shock of no longer being under daily or near-daily torments.

He rests a hand on Lavellan’s shoulder.

“When did you find this world?” he asks.

She sighs.

“Not long after I got back here,” she admits. “I was with the scouts who did the first assessment. We had it classified as a Two-Off World.”

“Two-Off?” Sulvuna asks.

Lavellan nods, and reaches for the book between them. She flips forward in it, to a diagram which Thenvunin recognizes. Mana’Din made it, back in the early days of the estate, when she was attempting to keep track of their discoveries… in a form that could also be easily destroyed, should the need arise. The drawing is of several spheres, representing worlds of course, with their current one located in the middle.

“Because this world is where the World Eluvian connects, this world is also our base of reference for all the others,” Lavellan explains, tapping the central sphere. “For the past few centuries, one of our goals has been to try and figure out how to determine which worlds are ‘closer’ to this one - that is, which worlds are nearly identical - and which ones are not. Where divergences are happening, and why, and if there are common factors to determining it. The system is still very loose, but currently, we categorize worlds based on some broad concepts of how alike or different they are from World One.”

Clearing her throat a little, she launches into a basic explanation.

“A One-Off World seems to be entirely the same, discounting anything that could be altered by our actual arrival there. A Two-Off World has many of the same recognizable people, forces, and events, but also possesses key differences which cannot simply be attributed to our arrival. A Three-Off World still operates under the same physical and metaphysical laws as World One, such as magic, science, the transference of energy, and so on, but its society is substantially different - and yet, will still contain recognizable individuals. A Four-Off World operates under  _different_  physical and metaphysical laws… and so it goes, by degrees. The most divergent world we have been able to find through the World Eluvian was a Twelve-Off World.”

Sulvuna looks very interested. Her fingers twitch again, but she takes the book with what seems to be an ingrained sort of trepidation. Her eyes find Lavellan, who only nods in encouragement; before Sulvuna nevertheless retracts her hands again, and examines the page without touching the book.

As she does, Lavellan turns her attention back towards Thenvunin.

“Is the world…?” he begins, attempting to tactfully ask if they have lost another one. It is not uncommon for Mana’Din to build paths towards worlds that she determines are at an end, if only to try and help rescue some possible survivors.

Lavellan shakes her head, however.

“No. It was bad, but… not there  _yet._  We could  _not_  abstain from interfering, though. Falon’Din was… it was bad.”

She concludes that note in a tone which does not invite further questions on that subject. Sulvuna, however, only nods, with the kind of detachment which comes of living with a horrible reality to the point of resignation.

“So you have been taking in people fleeing his rule?” Thenvunin surmises.

Lavellan shakes her head.

“Oh, we killed him,” she asserts. “He had no idea we were coming, and even  _his_  paranoia didn’t account for alien visitors capable of using their interdimensional eluvian to access any point in his empire that we cared to. We came back, conferred, put together an assassination team, and took him out in his sleep. Along with his most influential generals, priests, and overseers. There was already a local rebellion, of course. They seized the opening, but they started killing the households of Falon’Din’s high-ranking subjects. Not just the leaders, but the servants and slaves, too.”

“There are spells that make you do what they want,” Sulvuna chimes in. She rubs her fingers together, and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Rebels have been turned over by servants many times. So, they began killing us, too. And most servants are more terrified of rebels now than of their masters.”

Lavellan nods in thanks, but Sulvuna’s eyes are turned down again.

“We managed to empty out the slave quarters of Falon’Din’s chief estate before the rebels arrived, and found out that crossing worlds ended a lot of the enchantments, and rendered most of the rest ineffectual. Some parties are still doing search and rescue operations, offering asylum to anyone with the enchantments on them. But, most of it went… fast. We’ve got maybe… six hundred people, at last count? Our healers have been working overtime, and we have some specialists removing the remaining spells from everyone, but it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing.”

“And this is why you need help,” Thenvunin concludes. “Oh, dear, what a thing to have been through. You should have written sooner, I would have come the instant I knew…”

Lavellan smiles, and when he reaches over to brush her face, she leans into the touch.

“It was bad, but there wouldn’t have honestly been time,” she tells him. “We were all just moving as fast as we could, jumping from one thing to the next, but honestly we didn’t lack for hands. We still only have the one eluvian, after all, and even though this was a big group, it wasn’t our biggest. The reason I called you is because of… um. Husk.”

Sulvuna gives them a curious look, at that. But Thenvunin can only frown, as his thoughts veer away from some self-recrimination (he should have  _noticed_  something was amiss with her last letter, it  _was_  uncommonly short…) and into bafflement.

“Husk?” he parrots.

“Husk was Glory, until Falon’Din broke them,” Sulvuna asserts, which does not really help shine much light on the situation. But he supposes that ‘Husk’ is a name then.

What names these poor people seem to have. Sulvuna just means ‘alive’, he thinks. Are they their real names, or ones they were forced to take on? Given Falon’Din’s propensities, he supposes it would probably be the latter.

“They were one of the slaves from the first rescue effort,” Lavellan tells him, with another long breath. “I was hoping Nanae might be able to help them. They are the only guest, currently, who has refused to let anyone touch the enchantments on them. It’s causing some problems, but we hardly want to  _force_  them. Security is worried that they might try and do something rash, like run off and join up with the Falon’Din loyalists out there or something. I think it’s far-fetched, given how terrified they are, but not everyone agrees.”

Thenvunin is still not quite sure why she wants  _Uthvir,_  of all people, for that.

“And you think Uthvir could allay the security concerns?” he hazards.

“No,” Lavellan admits. “Or, maybe, but I wouldn’t bet on it, they would probably just agree under with the precautions. But… um, well. It might be easier if I just showed you…”

She stands up. Sulvuna shoots up, too, in a reflexive fashion. But then she lingers uncertainly, until Lavellan assures her that she can sit and stay with the books, and look through them all she likes. Sulvuna hesitates, but after a few moments, sinks back down into her seat. Thenvunin does not hear the sounds of pages turning until he and Lavelaln are nearly out of that section of the archives, though, and when he glances back, the woman freezes up for a moment again.

He averts his gaze.

“Sulvuna has no enchantments on her anymore?” he checks.

Lavellan nods.

“They all have trauma, though,” she says, simply enough. And Thenvunin supposes it does not really require more explanation than that.

They head through more parts of the estate. A wing that was still under renovation - to expand it out into more of the grounds - has been completed, since the last time he was here. The soothing tones on the walls and the slight hum of meditative energies makes him think of most healing chambers. They pass by an archway leading into a room where several elves are in discussion, and the hum manages to successfully overlay the words of their conversations as well as the emotional energies. Thenvunin can tell that the people they pass by are speaking, but he has no idea what the contents of the discussion are.

No wonder Uthvir was so pleased with the progress reports on this part of the estate.

Eventually, though, Lavellan leads them to the end of the wing, where a small foyer breaks off into a half dozen doorways. Housing, by the looks of it. The last door on the left has a great many locks on it. Lavellan opens them with a few gestures and by pressing her palm flat to the door, and then letting her energy flare outwards two times. She was not exaggerating about the security, Thenvunin thinks.

“Husk?” she says, then. Knocking. “It is Lavellan. I brought a guest. May we come in?”

Silence.

Lavellan does not seem perturbed, though.

“Should we go away?” she offers, instead.

More silence, and Thenvunin is just beginning to wonder if this Husk person is out somewhere, when at last they get a very quiet reply.

“Come in.”

Past the door, they come to what he can recognize as a fairly small, singular room. An arched window overlooks one of the estate’s courtyards, and a dim lamp glows from the side of a narrow desk. There is a wash basin in one corner, discreetly angled behind a partition, and a fairly large wardrobe built into the wall next to an open bed.

But none of this catches his attention for very long.

Because in the middle of the bed, there is an elf. And this elf has long, blonde hair, and blue eyes. They are small and sitting with their legs folded, dressed in a plain yellow nightgown that clashes terribly with the metallic-gold of their skin. And they are not an elf who Thenvunin has ever met before. They are very different, in so many immediate and apparent ways, they are almost  _opposite._

But he knows their countenance. Not the exact features of their face, which are soft and open, with a slightly upturned nose and a much rounder jaw. But  _their_  face, all the same.

He can feel it. Not like the bond, not entirely, but close. Close enough that he cannot simply wave off the resemblance as coincidence, or artifice. This is not just a person who maybe, in the right light, somewhat resembles Uthvir, but also is  _clearly_  very different, too.

This is another version of Uthvir.

Another Uthvir, from another world.

For a moment, all Thenvunin can do is stand by the doorway, and wonder rather uselessly if Uthvir had felt this strange when they met his own other self for the first time. Or if this situation, these circumstances, are just inherently more surreal. Because Thenvunin does not think he felt as wrong-footed, as  _gutted,_  when he met his  _own_  alternate self, or even when he realized who Mana’Din was to Lavellan, as he does right now.

“Uthvir,” he says.

Husk stares at Lavellan’s feet, and does not show the slightest bit of acknowledgement for the name.

“Good evening, Husk, thank you for letting us in,” Lavellan says, on far surer footing than Thenvunin himself. She reaches out and squeezes his hand, and it helps. It reminds him that he has more to do than just stand in the doorway and gape like a fish.

Her thanks merits a glance up, and then a tilt of their head. Husk’s eyes flit towards Thenvunin, and he finds himself arrested all over again. For all that their body language is meek, for all the the colour of their eyes is wrong, their stare is not dazed or distant or hesitant.

It is sharp. Sharp, and quick, and over in an instant.

“This is my father,” Lavellan says, and gestures towards him. “He is called Thenerassan.”

“…Good evening,” Husk says.

Thenvunin’s throat feels too thick to speak through. But somehow, he manages.

“Do you know me?” he finds himself asking. Moving just a little bit closer, to stand more fully in the lamplight. “In your world, do you know some version of me? Have we ever met there?”

Husk glances at him again, and the second time is no less jarring. No less  _telling._  But it betrays not even the barest hint of recognition.

They shake their head in the negative.

“No, my lord, I am sorry,” they say.

Thenvunin shakes his own head in return.

“No, no need for apologies. Nor titles,” he assures them. “I am not a  _lord,_  I assure you. If you feel a need to be formal you may call me ‘General’, but my name is more than sufficient.”

“I meant no offence,” Husk replies, quietly, and Thenvunin is given to the impression that they have just managed to get off on  _entirely_  the wrong foot. He is not sure it could be helped, though. That is  _Uthvir_  - and it is emphatically not - and they have clearly been through… been through some very horrible things. The implication of their changed appearance is more than a little shocking. He knows of Falon’Din’s propensities, of course. His  _tastes._  Did he, or did one of his followers, change Uthvir’s appearance so?

He entirely forgets about Sulvuna’s comment on glory.

“You gave no offence, none at all,” Thenvunin insists, as gently as he can. He looks at Lavellan, and is caught by the notion that it must have been terribly hard for her, too. To have found a version of her own parent in such dire circumstances. He hopes she did not meet them until  _after_  everyone had been evacuated. Hopes she did not have to see them in… in some compromised state, in among those being abused by Falon’Din. Hopes that it did not drag her back to when she had been little, and had wept and thrown fits and been so upset whenever Andruil, or one of her hunters, laid hands on him.

But he thinks it might have. Must have, because there is pure commiseration in her gaze.

After a moment, however, it is she who moves a little closer to Husk, and makes the next move.

“Husk… I sent for my parents. I wanted you to meet my Nanae, Uthvir. To  _see_  that you are more than what Falon’Din ever claimed you were. Unfortunately, Uthvir seems to still be caught up in their duties,” she explains, and then glances back towards Thenvunin again. “I told them,” she admits. “About Nanae being their counterpart, here. No one else seems to have made the connection, though, so I have been keeping it mostly between us.”

Unspoken, but heard, is that she does not think Uthvir would appreciate any indiscretion in this regard. And Thenvunin can only agree with that - their reputation is important, even here, where their origins are much more widely known. And this version of themselves… it is like looking at all the raw nerves that he has ever known Uthvir to try and disguise, put on display, will they or nil. Husk shifts slightly upon the bed, and tilts their head towards Lavellan in a way which simultaneously implies that they are listening intently, while also ensuring that they do not make eye-contact with her.

Any fate, Thenvunin thinks, is too kind for the likes of Falon’Din and Andruil.

“Then, should I be expected to look after General Thenerassan in their stead?” Husk asks, quietly.

Thenvunin feels as if someone just dumped vinegar into every old wound that ever lingered in his spirit.

“ _No,”_  Lavellan says, firmly. “You are not expected to look after anyone, nor to take your own initiative on that, at the moment. I only wished to make your introductions, so that neither of you surprised one another.”

And so that Thenvunin could understand the situation without being told about it in a crowded archive room, he suspects. But he lets that remain unsaid, too, and when Husk glances at him again, he musters himself enough to manage a smile. Possibly not his best, but he cannot help but look them over again. They do not seem as freshly healed as Sulvuna had looked, at least. The nightgown keeps slipping on their shoulders, low enough that Thenvunin notices the absence of some familiar scar lines. It strikes him oddly - that Husk should have fewer scars than Uthvir.

But Andruil gave Uthvir those scars. Falon’Din, he is sure, has left different ones - visible or not.

An idea comes to him, and he finds himself acting on it before he can think twice.

“Lavellan, are our things in storage?” he asks. There are rooms in the palace which are allotted to three of them, when things are not over-crowded. But under the circumstances, those have almost certainly been given over to someone else to use - in which case, the clothes and other non-sensitive items which they tend to use here have probably been packed away.

“Mm. I have them,” she confirms. “There are in a store room not far from the chambers. Actually, I was using the rooms before all this happened. There are some guests staying there with me now, but if you would like, we can split your bed into two and share the room I’ve been using. Quarters are crowded, unless you prefer to camp.”

Thenvunin inclines his head in acknowledgement. Sharing chambers with near-total strangers? Uthvir would not like that.  _Thenvunin_  does not like it, either, and so he is struck by the idea that he should very much remain close to his daughter. He has no doubt that the people she is helping deserve it, but… sometimes even deserving people can be dangerous, too.

“That sounds fine. But, there should be some of Uthvir’s spare clothes in there. They are of a good and sturdy make, perhaps Husk might like them? Or might like to at least look them over, and see if there is anything better than whatever has been spared for them so far. I am certain Uthvir would not mind, under the circumstances.”

Lavellan nods at him.

“That’s a good idea,” she concedes. “I should have thought of it. What do you say, Husk? Would it be alright if we brought you some things to look at? You would  _not_  have to wear anything you disliked, I promise.”

Husk lowers their head.

“The Commander and the General are too generous,” they murmur.

Thenvunin’s palms itch. He wants so badly to reach out to them. Their hair looks like it needs brushing, and that nightgown seems increasingly wretched and unsuitable for them in his eyes. It is loose, and the material is thin and stiff - it is probably rubbing uncomfortably at their skin every time they move, and he knows Uthvir hates such clothing, that they prefer heavy and structured things that rest consistently against their skin. He cannot assume that Husk is the same, of course, but still. They must feel so  _exposed._  And to be under guard and to have those enchantments on them… Thenvunin can detect only the barest hint of spellwork, but it is enough to make his stomach roll.

He is still feeling out-of-sorts by the time Lavellan says polite farewells, and ushers him back out of the room again.

When they are in the corridor, he sags against the wall.

“I am so sorry,” she says. “I just thought… if they met Uthvir, they could see that they don’t need Falon’Din’s enchantments in order to keep living. If I knew they were away, I would have waited for them to get back before I sent the message. Or I should have been more specific, that we probably needed them. But then I needed to explain, and… I should have given you more warning, at least.”

“No, no,” Thenvunin assures her, and reaches an arm over. She accepts the invitation, and he pulls her close, and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “You did the right thing, sending for us. I left Uthvir a message, so they will come as soon as they can, no doubt. I just need a moment.”

“I understand. Believe me,” Lavellan agrees.

They take the moment, and then another one, before Thenvunin finally feels steady enough to move through the halls. He does not cry, but he feels as if he is perpetually on the verge of it, as they make their way back through the corridors and down into the more typical housing wings.

Some things there have changed since he last stayed at the estate, though mostly only cosmetic details. It seems they have some new artists in residence. Not surprising, given how frequently the population changes. A lot of people who come in through the World Eluvian eventually move on. Sometimes to other parts of Mana’Din’s territory, as he and Uthvir have done. Sometimes to other worlds - back to their own, with better prospects, or else on to another location, discovered by the various scouting groups. So far, no one has turned up an ‘empty’ world - a world that is both suitable for inhabitants, and also lacking native residents. But they are looking, Thenvunin knows. The potential for resources and the secretive expanding of Mana’Din’s territories, with such a find, would be immense. And there are many currently staying at the estate who hope for such an opportunity.

Likely, there are many outside of it who would hope for it, too, if they knew it to be possible. Those from the camps who cannot escape the sinking dread of living under Imperial rule. Former servants of the empire, who feel the same.

For the time being, though, the estate remains a solitary oasis, home to many travellers and visitors alike. Thenvunin wonders if the people who have come from this last world will ever go back to it. Or if they will stay here. Or, if they will find some other world more suited to them. Probably a mix - that is usually how it goes.

It is easier to think of such matters, and the adjustments that will have to be made for those who stay in the long-term, than anything else at the moment. So Thenvunin lets himself retreat into such thoughts, into the superficial fretting, as he and Lavellan make their way along in contemplative silence.

When they reach their usual rooms, Lavellan halts him for a moment.

“Let me introduce you,” she requests. “We have already had a few misunderstandings, and the people I am sharing quarters with have been through some terrible things. I have to make every change in circumstance pretty clear, for everyone’s sakes.”

Thenvunin nods in understanding, and keeps himself one step behind her as they make their way inside.

The lights are dim, but not dark. The rooms have lovely windows, and despite the late hour, they are open wide - along with the curtains. The air in the rooms smells very fresh. The landscape paintings Thenvunin had selected seem to all still on the walls, but many of the furnishings have been rearranged or swapped out, and Uthvir’s weapons collection is nowhere to be seen. Not that that is surprising. The front greeting room is small, but airy, and is currently being occupied by a trio of elves.

Who halt whatever conversation they were having, and go stiff and reserved as soon as he and Lavellan enter the rooms.

“Good evening, everyone,” Lavellan greets. “I would like to introduce you to my father, General Thenerassan of Mana’Din’s forces. He is staying with me while he helps see to some of the adjustments at the estate. Do not worry; my father is a former event coordinator, with experience in resource management and security. He is not here to cause anyone harm, nor to employ his military skillset.”

The elves in the room relax, marginally. They look towards Thenvunin, with the same sort of deliberately submissive body language which Husk had employed. He does not recognize any of them, but they strike him with an odd sort of familiarity.

It pulls him back to his days of living under Andruil’s thumb.

“Papa,” Lavellan says, turning towards him. She gestures to one of the trio - a woman, petite and fair-haired as would suit Falon’Din’s tastes, with bright but wary eyes. “This is Lialva. She is in charge of Falon’Din’s former attendants, who are currently seeking refuge here.”

“Hello,” Lialva greets. Thenvunin does not suppose he can fault her wariness, and he offers her a half-bow in acknowledgement.

Lavellan gestures towards the other two.

“This is Des, and that is Sairal. They are sharing the main room with Sulvuna, who you met earlier. So please ask their permission before you venture in there.” Lavellan pauses, and then looks back at Lialva. “Are Grandeur and Remorse around?”

“Sleeping,” Lialva confirms.

“We will not disturb them, then, but someone should make certain that they know about my father, so they are not caught unawares,” Lavellan asserts. This is accepted with a nod, and the man called Des leans back, and folds his arms. He gives Thenvunin a very thorough once-over, in a manner which Thenvunin might object to, under different circumstances. He gets the distinct impression that an inappropriate comment is on the verge of manifesting, when the door opens behind them, and Sulvuna enters the room.

She pauses, and the tension rockets upwards for a moment, before settling back down again.

“Oh,” she says. “Lavellan. Your father is staying with us?”

“Mmhmm, in the room with me,” Lavellan confirms. “Space is at a premium for now.”

Sulvuna nods, and then moves over towards the other three. Thenvunin can feel the crowding in the space - they are not large chambers, and yet they are packed as much as three people to a room - but it does not seem to bother anyone else. Sulvuna moves over to Sairal and touches their wrist, sharing a glance that manages to communicate something without words. A quick check-in, by the looks of it. Sairal shakes their head, before Des moves in and essentially drapes himself over the other two. Seeming to lack the same reservations on touch that everyone else has.

Lialva sighs at him.

 _“Des,”_  she says.

“What?” he replies. “The enchantments are gone. It does not hurt anymore - we all should relish it! I do.”

Hurt?

Thenvunin gives Lavellan a questioning glance. She tilts her head, sadly.

“Restrictions on touch,” she explains. “One of the common enchantments induced pain whenever physical contact was made with unapproved targets.”

Des clucks his tongue.

“Possessive fucker, that Falon’Din. And his priests, too.”

Thenvunin swallows past a dry throat.

“So Husk…?” he ventures.

Lavellan nods once, slightly. He feels ill.

_Oh, Uthvir._

Lialva, though, gives Lavellan a sharp glance.

“You took him to Husk?” she asks. “Why? What for?”

Lavellan raises a hand to calm her.

“Because I hoped he could help,” she says. “And because Husk is still one of the biggest security issues. He needed to know exactly what was going on, and there was no better way to explain it.”

Lialva does not seem satisfied with that explanation, however. She scowls, and then averts her gaze. And then she seems to muster it again, finding some steel as she decides to try looking at Lavellan head-on instead.

“Husk is a former Attendant, of a sort. I am in charge of their safety. You should have asked me first,” she insists. “They are not some… some sideshow for visitors to gawk at, or use, not when you promised us safe asylum. Even if they are still enchanted, and if they are… they are not to be treated like that anymore, at least.”

Thenvunin feels the urge to come to his daughter’s defense. Husk is a version of Uthvir, after all, and he would  _never…_  but, as he tries to find the words, he realizes he can offer no defense that would not volunteer more information than he probably should.

Lavellan only bows, though, and handles the matter well enough herself.

“You are right,” she says. “I apologize, I should have checked with you first. My father would not hurt Husk. I know that, but I failed to consider that you would not. That was callous of me.”

For all her mustered steel, Lialva accepts the apology easily enough at least, offering only a moment’s more disapproval before she lowers he head.

“…I, I suppose we should establish… rules, before we get angry about them being broken,” she concedes. “Sorry.”

She winces at the apology, as if it had escaped her despite herself. Lavellan only nods and waves it off, however.

“I am going to get my father settled,” she asserts. “He had a long trip. If anyone needs anything, you still should not hesitate to knock.”

So saying, she then ushers Thenvunin off towards his usual room. Where it seems she has taken up residence. The doorway to Uthvir’s room is closed tight, but the doorway to her usual room is ajar. Thenvunin glimpses her desk, with some supplies and a single sketch of a butterfly strewn atop it. Signs of the other residents beginning to live in their refuge. Then he is tugged into his room, with its large closet, that seems to have become an impromptu storage space.

His usual chair is in it, along with the bookshelves. Some of the books appear to have migrated, and his desk is gone. Lavellan sees him glancing towards the empty space, as she heads for the closet.

“It’s in the main room, for Sulvuna and the others,” she tells him. “You should know, Sairal does not speak, and is usually a raven. Especially when he sleeps. Des will make inappropriate comments, but you can just ignore them. There is a new dining hall at the other end of the wing, but most of them eat in the rooms. None of them like to be touched without warning - not even Des, though he tells you he doesn’t mind. And Sulvuna likes books, but for a long while she couldn’t touch them because of one of her enchantments, so don’t just drop any into her hands or she’ll startle.”

Thenvunin nods in understanding, and moves to help her sort through some of the boxes.

“What about the other two?” he asks.

“Grandeur and Remorse?” Lavellan replies, and when he nods, she lets out a long breath. “Grieving. They lost people in the chaos. Many did, but… Remorse’s bonded was killed. And she was badly injured, with some dark magic placed upon her. She has been sleeping a lot.”

Uthenera might be upon her, in that case. Thenvunin cannot imagine… to lose someone you have a bond with. Now that he knows what it is really like, he wonders if he could even survive it.

Or _want_  to survive it.

He reaches over and puts his arm around his daughter again. He would try to, he thinks, for her sake. But the thought is morose, on top of all the other dark things that have happened here - he puts it away, and pushes back against the heavy atmosphere of the room. Focusing instead on the storage boxes. There are not  _too_  many sentimental things here. The estate is always changing, after all, so it is not a very good place to keep something one does not wish to lose. Some things have been secured in the vaults - Uthvir designed the wards on those, along with Mana’Din, and they are as secure as can be. But most of what they have here are simply nice, convenient sorts of things. Clothes and trinkets and necessities that no one would be  _too_  grieved to lose. Thenvunin is slightly chagrined to realize he has nearly twice as many boxes of clothing as Uthvir and Lavellan combined, but eventually they manage to dig through them to where Uthvir’s clothes are packed up.

There is a chest for their spare armour, and two boxes of lighter clothes. Thenvunin scrutinizes several articles, as Lavellan heads off to go rearrange the bed.

“We can share for tonight, and then I’ll see if I can find a cot for tomorrow,” she tells him.

Thenvunin glances at her over his shoulder.

“And  _I_  will be sleeping on the cot,” he insists.

She purses her lips.

“I like cots.”

“Lavellan.”

“What? I do. Big beds are much too soft for-”

“I am  _not_  sleeping in a full bed while my daughter freezes on some decrepit pallet. End of discussion,” Thenvunin insists, sniffing.

He can  _hear_  her rolling her eyes at him, but if she thinks he is going to budge a single inch, then she has not been paying attention for the past several centuries.

“Stubborn,” she tuts at him.

Thenvunin does not bother to deny it, and instead returns his attention to the task at hand. A lot of Uthvir’s clothing is…  _specifically styled,_  and he is not sure it would suit Husk to try and look threatening. But fortunately, their most intimidating pieces tend to be their armour, and their underthings veer towards more distinctly neutral colours and cuts. Thenvunin thinks of the yellow nightgown, and wonders if Husk differs from Uthvir in terms of liking colourful things to wear. If so, they are out of luck - the only colours among Uthvir’s clothing are red and brown, with everything else being either black or, very rarely, dark grey. Thenvunin selects a few soft pairs of leggings, and some undershirts, a red overshirt that is less ‘blood of the enemies’ red and more ‘sunset after a forest fire’ red, and a few vests. Then, upon considering the neatly folded pile, he rifles through some of his own boxes until he finds a sturdy pink-and-gold robe.

Husk probably cannot wear armour, but they can still feel  _covered,_  if they should like.

When he is finished, Lavellan comes over to inspect his selections.

“Good,” she determines. “They have a few options, if they feel up to choosing. We can take them over in the morning.”

Thenvunin finds himself shaking his head, however.

“I will not be able to sleep if I think they are in that lonely little room, in that horrid nightgown,” he insists.

Lavellan raises an eyebrow at him.

“That is a one of the kind the healers used, it is meant to keep from irritating their skin,” she informs him.

“Yes, well. I think I might know a few things about their skin that a one-size healing dress cannot accommodate,” he retorts.

He gets a sigh, but also a nod of concession.

“Alright, we can go back,” she says, and Thenvunin hears immediately how tired she is in the tone of her voice.

“Nonsense, it will only be a quick matter,” he replies. “You stay here and rest, you have probably been on your feet since dawn.”

“And  _you_  have been travelling all day,” she counters, reminding him terribly of Uthvir, in the way she folds her arms and in the tone she takes. Today, the likeness makes something inside of him clench and twist, painfully fond in a way that aches of bittersweetness. People like Uthvir… people like Lavellan… oh, they should never have to suffer. They do not deserve it, not one moment of it.

He musters himself, and fights back the tears. If he cries, then Lavellan will insist upon him not going back out, and he absolutely must see to this or he will get no rest at all. Somehow, he manages.

“What’s one more trip?” he says, clearing his throat. “I will take along Lialva. She can assure herself that Husk is fine, and… do you know, I really hope they pick a different name? I keep choking on that one. What a thing to call someone!” he huffs, and then sighs, and in the midst of his complaint he gathers up the things he chose. Lavellan relents, perhaps knowing well enough that this is another fight she cannot win. She goes with him back into the front foyer. Sulvuna, Des, and Sairal seem to have retreated into the main room, which is dark and quiet. But Lialva is still there, and turns to look at them as they emerge again.

“When I met with Husk, I offered to find them some things to wear that might be more to their liking than what they have,” Thenvunin asserts, gesturing to the clothing in question. “I was going to take them over… would you mind coming along? To deliver them, I mean. I would not want to startle them by turning up alone.”

Lialva’s gaze flits between himself and Lavellan, before she ducks into a stilted bow. Thenvunin gets the impression that she is not accustomed to stopping the gesture midway. But she manages, and when she tentatively reaches towards the clothing, Thenvunin relinquishes it easily enough. She examines his selections, frowning curiously before she glances back up at him.

“It is… certainly different from their usual clothing,” she says.

That probably should not make him want to cry again. Thenvunin swallows, and inclines his head, as Lavellan pipes up.

“It all belongs to my Nanae,” she says. “Except for the robe, I think. But they are the same size as Husk, and we can easily spare it, so…”

Lialva’s confusion clears just a little, and she manages a tentative smile.

“Well, I will find out if they are interested,” she decides. “You have had a long trip, General, and Husk has had a long day, too. I think it would be best - I mean, if it is alright, that is - I think I should I just… take these, myself. By myself. I will forward your good sentiments to them as well, of course…”

Thenvunin frowns, and Lialva looks as if she is immediately about to retract her decision. But then Lavellan closes a hand around his wrist, and gives him a meaningful glance. And Thenvunin understands. These are people who are used to having their slights, their transgressions - real or imagined - punished severely. That Lialva - who seems far too young to his gaze, to be honest - is asserting herself, is trying to stick up for the people she feels some responsibility for… that she even  _can_  do such a thing… is amazing.

And it must be encouraged.

“Of course,” he says, ignoring the clench in his chest, the desire to see Husk and see them more comfortable and reassure himself that he has at least done  _something._  “If they dislike anything, please let me know, and we will try to find something else.”

Lialva nods, and then hurries from the chambers as if she cannot wait to be rid of them. Thenvunin reminds himself not to take it personally, as Lavellan lets out a breath, and then gives him a grateful look.

“It’ll be fine,” she assures him, with another pat to his arm. “They are safe, Papa, and we will help them. Come on.”

She leads him back to the bedroom, and Thenvunin feels himself deflating. He does his best to console himself with the thought that the clothes  _will_  get to Husk. And perhaps, with no unfamiliar faces to make them nervous or uncomfortable, they will feel at their liberty to take or discard whatever they like. What sort of relationship do they have with this Lialva? Thenvunin has no idea who the woman is in their own world. Perhaps she died, when Falon’Din began to cull his followers here. Though she seems younger than that. Perhaps she never had the chance to be born, in that case. But he thinks that if she were at all questionable, Lavellan would not be acting the way that she is.

“The baths are crowded, especially at night,” she informs him, apologetically.

He waves off her concern.

“So long as you do not mind my horrible ambiance, my dear, I will survive,” he assures her.

Lavellan snorts at him.

“Papa, you smell like flowers and sunshine, not sweat and dirt.”

“Hm. Thank your Nanae, they find me my perfumes,” he admits, and then returns to the packed boxes, to retrieve some suitable nightclothes for himself.

It is a good evening, despite the circumstances. He and Lavellan do not talk much more after that, but they go through some of their reunion rituals. He tuts at her cut hair, and she brushes and braids his for him, and when she asks him for the news from Daran, he tells her of optimistic and lighter-hearted things. One of Uthvir’s agents has gone on leave to look after their new baby, and for the past few months has been bringing the little one around to the palace, to socialize. Thenvunin has no end of stories on the new baby’s escapades, which lighten the mood, as Lavellan laughs and then admits that there are some children among those rescued, too.

“Oh, the poor little ones,” he bemoans.

“They are doing the best out of anyone,” Lavellan assures him. “For them, this is an amazing adventure. None lost their parents this time, thankfully. One of the smallest ones has some health troubles, though, so they are all ensconced in the healing wing as well. You might bump into them.”

“I am sure they are  _exceptionally_  protective, at this point,” Thenvunin muses.

“You would be right.”

When they finally settle down for the night, Thenvunin listens as his daughter’s breathing slowly evens out, and her aura sinks into the Dreaming.

He stays awake for sometime afterwards. Not deliberately. But every time he feels on the cusp of sleep, he finds himself joking awake - caught in the grips of some nameless anxiety. His mind seems keen to dredge up every old pain from his past that it can manage to. Disjointed thoughts of the time he embarrassed his parents on a city trip as a small child, and the night before he took on his vallaslin, and the morning after the most painful and extensive healing of his life. The first time he had sex. The first night Andruil commanded him to her chambers. The last. The day he realized that Lavellan  _knew_  what was happening to him - had known, all along - and that all his efforts to shield her from such a thing had been in vain. The first time he realized that what he was going through, was what Uthvir had gone through. For years and years and  _years._

When he finally falls asleep, he does not realize it at all. Somehow he goes from lying in bed, to sitting in his old rooms back in Mythal’s palace. They look dusty and empty, and he is settled in the middle of the floor, too heavy to move.

It feels like he spends a long time there, but it is probably only a moment, until he hears a voice calling for him. And then familiar arms settled around him, and it is all he can do to turn in Uthvir’s embrace, and clutch them close to himself. Some unreasonable, panicked part of him finally soothed - this is  _his Uthvir,_  alive and well, just as they were the last time he saw them. No one has hurt them, even if they have hurt another version of them. He presses his nose into their hair as his heart beats like a hammer, and feels relief at the cool shadows that drop over the empty and painful dream. Obscuring the barren quality of the rooms, and the odd coldness of their walls.

“Thenvunin,” Uthvir says, worriedly. “What has happened?”

He shakes his head.

How can he even tell them?

“Is Lavellan alright? Are you? Did someone hurt you?”

Alright,  _that_  is how he can tell them; they are Uthvir, after all, and they will likely run themselves ragged with worry until they know.

“Everything is fine,” he says. “Lavellan is alright, and so am I. We just…”

He tightens his grip on them for a moment, until he can bear to lean back, and look at them properly. The dream has made their eyes that odd, eerie black, but Thenvunin hardly cares. Dreams have quirks, and he does not suppose he will feel  _entirely_  settled until he sees them in the flesh again.

“The scouts visited a terrible world. One where Falon’Din was the sole ruler of the empire,” he explains. “They managed to save some people. They… they brought back a version of you, Uthvir. Another you. And Falon’Din has done something terrible to them, has somehow convinced them that they are not even a  _real person,_  and I-”

Thenvunin chokes on his words as all at once, the dream changes. The lights die, the images around him fade, and he is overwhelmed with a sudden, visceral terror. So deep and profound that he wakes with a jolt. A silent scream catches in his throat, and he flails blindly. It is only luck, he thinks, that spares him from somehow hitting Lavellan. Luck and perhaps some paternal instinct, as he ends up throwing himself in the opposite direction and tumbling violently out of the bed instead. He hits the floor hard enough to knock the breath from him. And then a wave of nausea strikes, as his insides continue to twist, and the fear he cannot rightly understand escapes his control and permeates the air around himself.

He barely manages to find a chamber pot to empty his stomach in, and hears Lavellan curse and fumble her own way out of bed.

“Papa?” she asks, with concern.

Thenvunin wants to reassure her, but it takes him several minutes to even reassemble his wits. He retches, as tears stream down his face. The terror dulls to something more like a single, stabbing knife, and it is only then that he realizes that it is coming through bond.

That it is… that it is  _Uthvir’s_  terror.

“Papa?” Lavellan asks him again, settling a hand on his back.

Thenvunin swallows, and sits hurriedly back up.

“Something had happened,” he says. “I need to go and find Uthvir. I am so sorry, Lavellan, everything will be alright - but I need to find them, they were in my dream and I… I think we were interrupted, I think some calamity must have befallen them.”

Lavellan pales, and he hastens to assure her.

“They are alive,” he says. “I do not know if they have been harmed, but I will find out.”

“I will go with you,” she insists.

He nearly turns her down. The protective parent in him wants to. And she has much to do here, and someone must look after Husk. But Husk has people looking after them already, and they are safe. And who knows what has happened to Uthvir, to make them so frightened? Thenvunin has never felt them this terrified in all the time they have been bonded to one another, not in times of mortal peril or attack, not under threat,  _never._  If they are in that much trouble… then it may well be that Thenvunin alone cannot help them.

But to bring Lavellan into such a situation…

He weighs it, debating, but his daughter is already getting dressed; and there is a look on her face, the sort that says that if he tries to dissuade her, she will just follow after him instead.

It makes his decision for him.

“Stubborn,” he sighs, echoing her own sentiments.

And like him, she does not bother to deny it, under the circumstances.

With considerable speed, Lavellan pulls on the same clothes she had worn before getting ready for bed, and then heads for the door.

“I’ll go tell someone we’re leaving,” she says. “And fetch some weapons.”

Thenvunin nods, grimly, and pulls himself back together.

Whatever has happened, whatever has Uthvir so frightened - the two of them will find out, and defeat it before it can do them any more harm.

 

~

 

If Thenvunin is going to parade around in bondage rope, well, there really is very little that Uthvir can do about it, except respond in some kind of equivalent.

Of course, it would probably just alarm and unnerve Thenvunin if Uthvir were to tie themselves up. It wouldn’t do a lot of good things for Uthvir, either, and anyways, just copying their beloved seems like it would be lazy and inadequate.

Which is why Uthvir decides to go a different route.

The robe is one of Thenvunin’s favourites. It is a soft green and yellow, very comfortable and volumous. Most commonly, Thenvunin tends to keep it on hand for wearing over his evening clothes, just in case something should call for his attention after dinner. And most  _relevantly,_ he has worn it the past two nights in a row, and it is not one of his few garments with fancy self-cleaning charms.

It smells like him.

Uthvir plucks it off of Thenvunin’s changing rack, and pulls it on. The material brushes lightly against their bare skin. Not their preferred way to go about clothing themselves, but the scent is what makes it work for them. It calms them down, keeps the back of their teeth from itching, and balances their need for comfort as they settle themselves in the main room. Dressed in the robe and nothing else. They open the garden door to let in some of Thenvunin’s birds, and pick up his favourite romance novel.

And they settle in on some of the soft floor cushions to read.

And wait.

It is actually rather pleasant in and of itself. The scents and sounds from the garden are refreshing, and the sunlight spilling across the nearby floor warms it. Some of Thenvunin’s dumber birds mistake his robe for him, of course, and come chirping at Uthvir for treats. They’re easy to discourage, though. Uthvir just flutters a hand at them in the way that Thenvunin himself would, and a soft ‘shoo’ sends them off again. They get through more of the book than they had expected. The kidnapped merchant is just about to offer himself to the raider queen when they hear the sounds of the door opening.

Thenvunin calls out as he comes in.

“Uthvir? Are you in the garden?”

“Not quite,” they reply. It takes a certain amount of effort to keep their eyes on the book as they deliberately flip a page. Sprawled, nearly naked, in Thenvunin’s robe, atop several brightly-coloured cushions, as a few birds flutter around and make happy-greeting noises.

The sudden rush of  _heat,_ mingled with an unexpected flare of  _happiness/affection/wonder,_ though, is well worth getting the effect just right. They look up and see Thenvunin’s expression a moment later anyway. His eyes are wide, his mouth is open, and there is a very telling pink in his cheeks. A certain increasing darkness to his lips, and wideness to his pupils, too. It sweetens the heat in the air around him, and warms Uthvir better than the indirect sunlight had.

“I borrowed your robe,” they admit.

Thenvunin’s mouth shuts with an audible ‘click’, and he raises a hand to it. His eyes rove over them. Fixing on the robe, yes, and also the book, and then the birds, before lingering on a few distinctly less  _innocuous_  places. Uthvir taps a nail against the back of the book cover, as Thenvunin swallows, then gestures emphatically at them.

“Wait right there,” he instructs.

They raise an eyebrow, and feel their lips quirk.

“Certainly,” they agree.

Then they watch in amusement as Thenvunin shoos the birds back outside, somehow managing to do it in record time, and carefully closes the back garden door. Uthvir’s amusement grows as Thenvunin seems caught for a moment by indecision, then. Shifting around and looking back towards them, and then at himself, as if he isn’t entirely certain what he should do about this development.

Uthvir takes pity on him.

“Come and join me?” they suggest.

Thenvunin does not, as it happens, need to be invited more than once this afternoon.

He strips his clothes off hurriedly, pulling away his sashes and climbing out of his leggings, flushing even darker as that reveals just how  _excited_  he’s managed to get by the picture Uthvir has made. But he also sets everything out carefully on a nearby chair, before he finally sinks onto the cushions next to them.

Uthvir puts their book aside, and is ready to pull him to themselves; and is pleasantly surprised when Thenvunin takes the opening before they can. Settling over top of them, and sprawling his own bared self out between their legs. He doesn’t even get down to  _business_  in a hurry, either. Uthvir is not sure whether they feel more fond or amused as he keeps his erection a discreet distance down from them, and instead seems keen to use his body as an impromptu blanket for a while.

“You are trying to  _seduce_  me,” he says, with an affront that implies that he had not already realized that, hastily stripped down, and draped himself all over them.

Uthvir snickers.

“ _No,”_  they reply, in the most affronted tone of voice they can manage. Which, under the circumstances, is not affronted at all.

Thenvunin purses his lips, and gives them an impressively direct look.

Uthvir manages to raise a challenging eyebrow at him.

“Surely, you can admit, that lounging around in a comfortable robe and reading a book is a perfectly reasonable activity for someone to get up to in their own home?” they say. And they see, then, when he recollects. It was a good dozen years ago now, but at one point in time Thenvunin - wearing a different robe, but reading the same book, and with only some different birds invading their chambers - had greeted them quite similarly.

The air around them practically wavers with the rush of surprise, before settling into something quieter, and more… touched.

Oh.

Uthvir hadn’t thought they were being  _sentimental,_  per se, but on balance… perhaps they were, at that.

After a moment, Thenvunin clears his throat.

“Well,” he says. “That sort of activity does seem perfectly reasonable to me. But, if we are going to judge by what one another considers reasonable, then I suppose my response should be obvious. Goodness knows  _your_  opinions on what to do with a nearly-naked lover, lounging innocently in their sitting room, after all.”

Uthvir grins at the bravado in his tone, and makes a show of spreading their hands away from themselves. They do not, as it happens, entirely recall what they did to Thenvunin when they found him like this. Had sex, yes, but the specifics have gotten a little blurry. Judging by the look in his eye, though, this is one time that Thenvunin remembers with more clarity. His hands slide down them, and his mouth settles at the side of their neck.

“Just for reference,” Uthvir says, as he presses a soft, we kiss to their skin. “Sentiment is far more important than technical accuracy. I am not looking for a perfect recreation.”

“Well, I think I can still manage the gist,” Thenvunin murmurs, to their delight. They really do enjoy his moments of confidence - whatever form it takes. His lips trace down the side of their neck, and they know he  _is_  modifying things, too, because personally Uthvir doesn’t think they could have resisted biting him at this point. Or teasing him with it. Perhaps that is what they did, though, because after a few kisses, they feel the blunt of Thenvunin’s teeth graze them here and there.

Uthvir settles their hands onto his arms, and shifts a bit beneath his weight.

They get another pleasant surprise - nearly a shock, really - when Thenvunin attempts a  _growl,_  at that.

Nearly a convincing one, even.

“Hold still,” he murmurs. “I want to taste you before I take you.”

Uthvir’s breath catches, and their blood rushes distinctly southwards. Almost as soon as the words are out, they are followed by a note of embarrassment. Thenvunin’s face gets, somehow, even more red, and his eyes distinctly avoid theirs for a few moments. But then he seems to muster himself, and shifts his grip on them, and keeps trailing kisses downwards.

“Why,  _Thenvunin,”_  they purr.

“Oh hush,” he huffs, not quite managing to keep up the act any longer. It delights a snicker from them, though, bubbly enough that it might even be verging on a  _giggle._  If Uthvir would ever deign to giggle, that is. But before they can manage a response, Thenvunin’s lips land on the sensitive skin of one of their nipples. Their breath catches again, as they feel the heat of his mouth envelop them. His tongue whirls over them, teasing, as one of his hands comes up to toy with the other. Pleasure sinks through them at the points of contact, and slips down, adding to the heat between their legs until they cannot help but move their hips a little. And appreciate breath escapes their lips, and swings up in surprise when they feel a brief spark of magic light itself at the tip of Thenvunin’s tongue.

He rolls it over their nipple with a lick, and makes their nerves  _sing._

“Oh,” they breathe.  _“Oh.”_

Their fingers tighten on Thenvunin’s shoulders. Nails digging in, just a little, before they catch themselves. They wait for Fear to surge up a little, but the spirit seems unbothered, and when Thenvunin looks up at them any concern over it abandons them. He licks his lips.

“Alright?” he checks.

Uthvir takes a half a moment, but the only feeling in them is  _want._

“Do that again,” they request.

Thenvunin inclines his head, reassured, and then does.

Uthvir arches into the feel of his mouth on their skin. Not that they can arch  _much_ , truth be told. Thenvunin’s motions are slow, and his touch is gentle, but his weight is leaning into them. There is a wealth of skin pressed against their own, and a beautiful view of Thenvunin spread out in front of them.

They like this position a great deal, they think.

They like what Thenvunin is doing with his tongue even more.

The tingling of his magic has moved straight down to their fingertips by the time he draws his mouth further down again, and presses a kiss to their ribs. Uthvir feels themselves growing more and more flushed. And riveted, too, by the way the magic lingers on their skin. Thenvunin drags his tongue down to their navel, and they are not certain if they want him to keep going south or not. Part of them does. But part of them does not want to have imposed this as an unwitting request upon him, all things considered.

Thenvunin doesn’t keep going, though. He seems to contemplate it for a moment, but after the moment passes, he starts making his way back up them instead. Paying as much attention to them as he had on the way down, and Uthvir finds it impossible to complain. Particularly he gets one warm hand between their thighs, and starts moving his fingers against them. They feel just the faintest spark of magic there, too, but only for a moment. Then just pressure and exploring touches,  _barely_  firm enough to keep from pure teasing.

Uthvir pulls him a little more solidly to themselves, as they feel their desires mounting.

“ _Thenvunin,”_  they moan. “Let me…”

“No, let me,” he asks them, before they can even finish. There is that light in his eyes, the one that never fails to make Uthvir feel beloved. Perilously, dangerously beloved, but in a way that aches like a healing wound. Like the way their wings feel when Thenvunin’s hands have been on them. He kisses them, and they sink into it. They brush a hand across his cheek and tangle their fingers into his tresses, and wrap their legs more firmly around him.

But the kiss goes gentle, and when Thenvunin breaks it is to whisper a soft  _please_  that makes them want to roll them both over and make his own skin tingle with pleasure. There is no force to his touch, the weight of him against them would be easy to move, but that gentleness in him is too much. The way he starts to rock against them still feels beseeching, even with him on top. His cock sliding against their thighs, his breaths ragged in their ears. Uthvir steals another kiss, and nips his lips. They trail their nails across his shoulders. Not quite hard enough to scratch, but enough to leave reddened lines of skin, as they try to remind him of something.

“I am not made of glass,” they purr. Before one of his hands settles on their lower back, and their breath stutters just a bit. His fingers slide up, brushing the edge of their scars. His lips trace the shell of their ear, until he pulls a shiver from them.

“Yes you are,” he tells them, determinedly. “Beautiful glass. Sharp and dangerous and precious and impossible. You should always be held with care.”

Uthvir’s mind stutters away at the rush of poetry. From Thenvunin, and in the midst of coitus? He so rarely manages it. That he should pull it off with something so romantic and so uncomfortably close to the truth leaves them entirely taken for, a moment.

A moment long enough to have their lips captured again, as Thenvunin gives the edges of their scars one last touch, and then sets about pushing the rest of their stolen robe out of the way. Uthvir lets their teeth and nails trail in every kiss and caress, but it does not seem to deter Thenvunin. Not even when it sets his arms to trembling, as he holds himself up over them; not even when they feel his desires heady through the air, flush with the temptation to give in and let them take over. This new aspect of the dance between them still is liable to swing any which way. But just when Uthvir thinks, perhaps, that they will get him on his back yet, Thenvunin grasps their hips and hitches them higher, and thrusts himself haphazardly against them.

His cock slides between their cheeks and their fingers tighten on his shoulders, eyes widening and heart speeding up for a moment. And Fear does unfurl a little closer to the surface, at that. At the moment pure manhandling, the sudden, irrational thought that Thenvunin will press inside the wrong places and tear them in two.

Several strands of Thenvunin’s hair fall loose, and tumble around them. And the blink of the thought dies in the heated look of his eyes, and the feeling of reverence and affection spilling through the air between them. Uthvir lifts their hips a little higher, still. Granting his touch access to wherever it might please. But Thenvunin only squeezes their backside, and murmurs words of devotion as he lines himself up better, and teases their wet entrance with the head of his cock.

The press of it, so close, has Uthvir grinding their hips towards it. Thenvunin stops to sink his fingers into them instead, however. Testing their give, until their head is tipped back and their mind feels dizzy with wanting, their breaths ragged, their impatience bleeding out into the air and abating only when they feel a few tremors of answering hesitation.

They open their mouth to offer reassurance. To beg him, if need be. But the words turn into a gasp as he finally presses his way into them. Thrusting inside in one smooth, electric motion, that startles them enough to sink their nails into his shoulders.

Beads of blood well up beneath their fingers.

Thenvunin’s arousal burns with their own. Two struck matches flaring up, and lingering for just a moment, until he finally starts to move. Then it is just one single burning fire, the angle and speed faltering only a little before finding the perfect rhythm. Uthvir heart speeds and their toes curl, their blood singing even as they try to drawing Thenvunin’s pleasure up with the droplets on their nails. They are too close to hold things off, though, too riled and on edge and undone by the feel of his mouth on their skin and his emotions in the air. In their blood, too. They feel almost like they are thrusting into him as he moves inside of them, and the thought is enough to send them tumbling over in record time.

They bite their own lip hard enough to draw blood as they come.

Thenvunin lets out a strangled oath as he follows, not a second later. They feel it rush through them, too, the echoes of his pleasure tingling through their skin, and they would scold Fear except they cannot bring themselves to just yet. The aftermath leaves them breathless, as Thenvunin finally gives in and collapses against them. The both of them dazed and spent and uncommonly weak, considering how comparatively unadventurous that all was.

It is not  _that_  kind of weakness, though, Uthvir thinks. It is the other kind. The kind that comes with fervent promises and softly tended scars, and arms that hold what ancient hurts long to reach.

They clutch Thenvunin close as they catch their breath, and feel him bury his face into their shoulder in return.

“I love you,” he sighs, between heavy breaths.

Uthvir closes their eyes and presses their lips to his temple.

They will answer him back, they think. Just as soon as their throat is not too thick for words.

 

~

 

Living with someone for a long time, Uthvir muses, can produce some odd moments of cross-pollination now and again.

They catch themselves thinking about this as they stand in the bathroom, with one of Thenvunin’s towels thoughtlessly thrown over their shoulders, and a stray flower that he had left in the bathing pool clutched in one hand. Things they had not thought twice about gathering up. Thenvunin hardly minded if they used a towel of his or two, when convenient, and had probably just not noticed the flower in the bustle of the morning.

The picture it puts in their reflection brings them up short.

There are tassels on the towel. They had not used any scented oils in their bath - had mostly just been looking to clean off some mud that had gotten caked to them as efficiently as possible, to stop it from itching - but there is a lingering scent of some of Thenvunin’s things, from when he used the room this morning. The flower is delicate in their hand. Fresh, still, with charms to keep it that way. A bowl of its fellows rests beside one of the smaller wash basins.

They look at themselves. At the colour in their cheeks, and the way their hair is fluffed from the steam and free of its bindings. Unconsciously, they brush a nail against one of the flower petals.

It turns from blood red to dark purple, as easy as a whim.

Thenvunin’s colour.

Or, well, one of his colours, anyway. He likes a fair few more than Uthvir does.

They contemplate it a moment more, and then shrug, and leave it be as they set the flower back into the bowl. Lifting up the towel, they finish drying the ends of their hair and a few stray droplets still clinging to their skin. Their back feels soothed by the warm water, and they hum just a little as they pull on fresh clothing. A tune Thenvunin had sung at them, once, in a burst of romanticism.

Purple nails today…

Well, why not?

They make their way back out to the world in a cheerful mood.

 

~

 

Thenvunin has spent the better part of his morning beside himself with worry.

Uthvir will not come out of the bathroom.

The door has been sealed since he woke up, and he has only managed to contain himself because Uthvir has, at least, spoken to him through it. Early in the morning they informed him that there was ‘a problem’, but would not elaborate. They asked if he would mind using the public bath, and of course Thenvunin hadn’t, but he had been concerned.

His concerns had not abated when he had come back to find the bathroom still locked tight, and Uthvir requesting he forward several messages to their offices, explaining that they have been ‘detained’ and putting Inava in charge of oversight.

But now it is nearly noon, and Thenvunin’s mind is full of dire considerations. He has gone from assuming the trouble must be with some spell or feature in the bathroom, to feeling absolutely certain that the problem is with Uthvir themselves. Though they do not think, based on their connection, that Uthvir is in  _pain._  But perhaps they have figured out how to mask such a thing? The link feels closed off. Like the atmosphere beyond the bathroom itself. When it opens up, all he can really detect is frustration and anxiety. A slight edge of ‘being overwhelmed’ that does nothing to calm his nerves.

What has happened?

Has their shape-shifting gone awry? Is their magic acting strangely? Are they… did they have some kind of traumatic regression?

“Uthvir,” Thenvunin finally beseeches, with more gentleness than he has previously employed. He places a hand on the door. “My heart, I am very,  _very_  worried. Please let me in.”

There is the kind of pause that lets him know they heard.

Then he hears, from the other side of the door, a soft sigh. And the locks flare briefly, before releasing their hold on the wood. Thenvunin hurriedly opens the door, not certain what he might see but trying to brace himself for the worst. Uthvir with mutated wings. Uthvir with livid scars and glassy eyes. Uthvir with some kind of coercive, corrupted spirit, or open wounds, or even self-inflicted harm.

He comes up entirely short when he actually sees them.

All the things he has spent the moment considering, but this… is absolutely not one of them.

Uthvir is standing in the midst of their bathroom. Naked. Looking freshly washed, and uncommonly soft, and sporting a head of the fluffiest hair Thenvunin has ever seen in his life.

There are birds with feathers that do that. It is the only thing he manages which might be described as a ‘thought’, for several long, silent moments.

Then Uthvir sighs, and closes the door, and seals it again.

“There was a bath treatment at one of the market stalls the other day,” they say. “It reduces the metallic tones of certain skin types. With the days getting longer and brighter, I thought it might be wise to look into something like that. Just to avoid… anyways. It was a skin treatment, so I put myself under the water. Not much point in doing everything except my head. But now it has done  _this.”_

They point at their hair.

Thenvunin swallows.

“I can hardly be seen like this,” Uthvir explains. “It looks ridiculous. I have tried every straightening potion and treatment we have, and none of them have worked. I tried washing it out, and using different soaps and shampoos, and spells, but it refuses to cooperate. No one is going to take me seriously like this, and it is not as if I can make physical reminders of my prowess, Mana’Din has made her stance on mauling fairly clear…”

Thenvunin moves closer. His fingers twitching, the rush of relief mingling with the absurd and unexpected nature of the problem, and colliding with the inescapable observation that Uthvir…

Uthvir is  _fluffy_.

The laugh that starts to bubble up out of him is as much relieved as anything.

Uthvir frowns. But the hair really does ruin the overall effect of the expression.

“I was worried,” he admits.

That eases the frown. After a moment, it turns into a long sigh.

“…Sorry,” they say.

They do not actually have to explain, though. Not really. Thenvunin knows them well enough to know that they can be just as sensitive about their appearance as he can be about his. Image is important. Part of Thenvunin does understand why this is especially bad for Uthvir. Though it had somehow taken him a long time to actually  _realize_  it, their features are not, by nature, terribly frightening to behold. It does not take much for their carefully-cultivated image to be dented. The fangs, the claws, the armour, the hair,  _and_  their demeanour - it all works to distract from their natural capacity to look  _soft._

The fluffy hair kills the effect. There would be no salvaging it, they are correct.

…But also, Thenvunin really,  _really_  wants to pet it.

“May I…?” he ventures, as he tamps down on his less appropriate reactions. For once, those are not sexual in nature. Not at the moment, anyway. Though Uthvir  _is_  naked, so he supposes it would not take much.

They let out another, distinctly more aggravated breath. But then they nod.

Thenvunin abandons the last pretense of restraint in favour of heading straight for them, and wasting no time in giving in to his impulse for contact. He was worried, of course, and so touching them is reassuring, but also, as soon as he gets his fingers into their hair he knows he is going to have troubles getting them back out again. Uthvir’s hair always feels softer than it looks. But now it looks fluffy, and it feels like  _silk._  Like a cloud made out of silk.

He parts some of it, and runs his fingers through the strands, and in his defense he does of course actually inspect their hair. Whatever treatment they used, though, seems to have just brought out the natural softness in exceptional abundance. There is nothing coating the hair, and while he is fairly certain a degree of magic was involved, it seems to be of the ‘healing’ sort. Meaning that it has made its effect on Uthvir’s physical form, without lingering afterwards. So there is nothing to dispel, either.

After a few minutes, Uthvir - very, very slightly - starts leaning into his touch.

“Are you just playing with it?” they ask him, after several moments.

Thenvunin tsk’s.

“I am  _examining_  it,” he insists.

But his lips twitch, and he cannot honestly deny that his fingers are wandering of their own accord. And after a few moments, he has to bite his lip to keep from smiling. It is just… it is  _fluffy._  Uthvir is  _fluffy,_  and that is so much lighter than the problems he had been imagining, and. Well.

They look cute.

 _“Thenvunin,”_  they sigh.

“Oh, come now,” he tuts. “You tease me often enough. Besides, it is not a  _bad_  look for you.”

“It very much is a bad look for me,” they refute. “I am a Spymaster. I am required to intimidate.”

“You know what I mean,” he retorts, pausing for a moment as he discovers some particularly silken strands behind their ears. “There is no one else here to see, Uthvir. And I am hardly going to think less of your abilities because of  _hair._  I know full well that your nails and teeth are still sharp and that you are strong enough to punch through brick if need be.”

Some of the tension eases, just slightly, from the line of their shoulders, and from the awkwardly clenched sensation behind Thenvunin’s ribcage.

“Well I am,” they mutter.

Thenvunin snorts. Which becomes a snicker. Uthvir gives him a very unimpressed look, but in all fairness, he supposes he can concede that the hair is rendering those especially ineffective today. He fluffs at a few strands of their bangs.

Their eyes narrow.

“I am going to bite you,” they warn him.

He snorts, again.

“You are  _not.”_

Uthvir purses their lips, but does no more than that. They fold their arms, and seem to be internally muttering dire things, as Thenvunin carries on with his - very thorough - examination of their hair. And their skin, of course, because it  _was_  a skin treatment after all, and their skin also feels very, very soft. Though a few of their scars do look flushed, and they are holding some tension still that reminds him that these things are not always so lighthearted or simple for them.

It reminds Thenvunin of days spent in front of mirrors, worrying about the placement of each eyebrow, and the silhouette of his every angle.

“Will you help me shave it off?” they finally ask him. “I can hardly spend more than a day in hiding over it, and at this rate it seems to be the only thing left.”

Thenvunin cannot contain the sound of protest which escapes him at the prospect.

“Surely not,” he protests. “We have hardly exhausted the alternatives. Besides, going bald would just make it obvious that you have very delicate features, and long eyelashes. At the very least, we can braid it to start with.”

Uthvir hesitates for a moment. Wavering in indecision, that is visible enough that Thenvunin finally takes a hand out of their hair so that he can settle it onto their shoulder instead.

He gives it a squeeze.

“Trust me,” he says.

They relent.

“Of course I do,” they say.

It warms Thenvunin through, and does absolutely nothing to save him from the terrible case of tenderness that keeps overtaking him. Uthvir’s raw, untapped potential when they are soft is truly a marvel to behold, he thinks. They may well have done the world a favour when they decided to style themselves as sharp and vicious, they are far too powerful when they are soft and fluffy. He might actually need to sit down for a moment.

He manages to achieve that by convincing them to get back into the bath and wet their hair again. He settles at the padded ledge himself, disrobing to keep from getting any clothes damp, and fetching some of his own haircare supplies. A few things have been moved around, in Uthvir’s obvious search for a solution. And there is, for some reason, an open bottle of lavender oil next to the bath.

 _For calming down,_  he realizes.

That is… sobering. Uthvir must have become increasingly stressed as they tried and failed to fix the matter of their hair.

“I should have thought of braids…” they mutter to themselves.

“Well, you do not usually keep your hair long enough for them,” Thenvunin replies, as they finish wetting their hair again. Even damp, it still looks like it is trying to puff back up. Small braids, then. Fine, and he will need heavy ties to keep them weighted. He can use simple ones for now, though, and add others later. There is a set that was gifted to him a few years ago that should do, just collecting dust at the back of his closet.

Uthvir settles against his legs, and Thenvunin finds their hair feels just as soft when it is wet, too.

And someone ‘braiding Uthvir’s hair’ begins with an rather extensive scalp massage, which neither of them see fit to comment upon. Uthvir leans into it, though, and Thenvunin finds himself mesmerized for a little while by the feel of their strands of hair passing through his fingers. At least until it starts to dry again; at which point he remembers himself well enough to start parting it into sections, and begin deftly twisting and braiding the strands.

Which are fine enough that they  _absolutely_  do not want to cooperate.

Gel does not want to stick to their hair either, but a spell that Thenvunin has not had to use for years and years does the trick. The last time he got to braid someone else’s hair was when Lavellan was a girl. There is something very soothing about the practice, he has found. Uthvir braids his hair from time to time, and they have let him cut it before, and all these interactions have a certain feel of sweetness and intimacy.

Even when one or both of the parties involved is grumbling throughout.

“At this rate I am just going to end up with a head full of fluffy braids,” Uthvir mutters.

“Nonsense,” Thenvunin says. He twists around, and grabs up one of his hand mirrors, and gives it to them. “Here, watch me fix it.”

Uthvir’s lips twitch, just the tiniest bit, as they accept the mirror.

“Confident,” they note.

“I know what I am doing,” Thenvunin assures them, with another pat to their shoulder. “When I was in my early hundreds there was a fashion for waterfall waves of hair that gradually changed colours from the roots to the tips. That was before I became a soldier, and my mother had acquired an etiquette tutor for me in Arlathan who absolutely refused to take me to any functions until I appeared suitable to be associated with them. Well, of course, I wanted to go to every fancy party that I possibly could, so I went to get my hair enchanted. I decided I would set it all up myself, just to prove how well I had learned things, but I had no idea what to look for in a hair stylist. To cut a long story short, I ended up with an enchantment that did indeed change my hair to the right colours, but it also made it appallingly heavy and greasy after the first few hours of having it done. Of course I tried desperately to fix it, but the enchantment was meant to last an entire month and I had no idea how to counteract the effects…”

Uthvir listens as he goes on to describe the old drama. At the time, of course, it had felt like the worst sort of disaster. The only recourse he knew for dealing with uncooperative looks was to hide himself away, and so he had done. His mother had eventually arrived to find him in tears, holding a pair of scissors and trying to work up the nerve to cut off his precious locks, utterly inconsolable. Looking back, though, he cannot help but think he was being such a silly young thing.

He remembers cutting his hair short when they had first come here. How light it had felt, to shear it all away. His younger self had not even been able to muster up the nerve to snip a single lock. It had taken his mother ages to calm him down enough to attend the matter, and then she had taken him to the finest hair stylist in Mythal’s territories. Not anyone in Arlathan, no. Exuberance had lived in Mythal’s palace, as her personal stylist and Attendant. Technically retired from commissions, but he had taken one look at Thenvunin and Mirena, and rescheduled his meetings for the next week just to help them.

“…And that was how I came to live at the palace for a time, actually,” Thenvunin muses, as he begins taking the braids at the top of Uthvir’s head, and securing them together into a pattern that will lie flat against their scalp. “Exuberance fixed my hair in a few days, and then spent a great deal of time teaching me all about how to look after my particular sort of tresses, and what to look out for in stylists. At the end of it he offered to take me on as a student, and eventually I accepted, and then I started doing my daily exercises with the palace guard. Several of whom noted my aptitude for combat training, and wrote letters of recommendation for me.”

Uthvir looks at him with some obvious interest.

“I had no idea a bad hair day led to your career in the military,” they say, and Thenvunin would think they were teasing, except that they do sound more fascinated than anything else.

He raises one shoulder in a shrug.

“Well, technically it was far more than that,” he admits. “I had expressed an interest before, but Mythal did not want me on the battlefields, or… something like that. I always thought it was because she worried for me. Perhaps there was another reason… or perhaps that really was it. I was young, after all. A few thousand years of service can take the shine off of someone. But at any rate, after the letters of recommendation, I was appointed to her personal battalion for a few years. To receive some special training, you see, while I served as a groomer for her guard. Mostly just helping them bathe and doing their hair. And then  _eventually_  I was awarded the rank of soldier and stationed with one of her armies. It took me a hundred years to gain a rank, and centuries more to work my way up to being a commander. Even with Mythal’s favour.”

Uthvir shifts slightly. He stills them with a tap to the side of their head, and sets about braiding the lower segments of their hair. A very atypical look for them. But perhaps  _sleek_ rather than  _sharp,_  and their expression in the little hand-held mirror does not look quite so dour, and the room itself feels a bit lighter somehow.

“You… do not usually talk about such things,” Uthvir ventures.

Thenvunin shrugs.

“It was a long time ago,” he says. “But it is not as if it is difficult for me to speak of. I may have been a silly tit for most of my life, but it was easy going.”

Not like with Uthvir, who avoids any and all discussions of their early life with telling meticulousness. Thenvunin does not pry, though sometimes he dearly wishes to. Part of him also dreads the results, and has learned better than that, anyway. He does not necessarily need to know it all, to know what it has done to them.

“Battlefields were easy going?” they ask, obviously unconvinced, but not uncomfortable.

“Alright, no, that is not how I would describe them,” Thenvunin concedes. “But I was never alone on them. And despite my skills, they rarely put me in the thick of things. I had to duel my first commander for the right to a promotion, they kept trying to reassign me elsewhere.”

Amusement, at that. Uthvir grins at him in the mirror, as he ties off another braid.

“You had to fight to prove yourself? Literally?” they ask. “Mythal’s soldiers are more like Andruil’s than I imagined.”

“More like than I imagined, too,” Thenvunin murmurs, ruefully.

They fall into quiet, then, as he finishes putting in Uthvir’s braids. He has to get up to go and fetch the ties from his room, then, and he bids them stay put until he can come back with them. The end result is very fetching, Thenvunin thinks. Not as adorable as the fluffiness, but he is fairly certain that when they take the braids out, that he will get to see it again. And Uthvir looks far from ridiculous, or overly cute. They scrutinize their reflection very intently. Thenvunin made sure to secure all the braids very neatly, and even once their hair is dry, the weights do their work and their is no fluff or puff to speak of.

“Well?” he asks. “What do you think?”

Uthvir draws in a breath, and sets down the mirror.

“I think, Thenvunin, that you are absolutely amazing, and have rescued me from disaster,” they declare.

His face heats at such a proclamation, and something inside of him squirms in unexpected pleasure. He clears his throat.

“Good,” he says.

He is not at all expecting it when Uthvir nods, once, and then  _pounces._  Sweeping him clean off of his feet, so quickly that Thenvunin can only squawk in indignation, before they dip him low and smirk at him with a mouth full of sharp teeth. His hands scramble for balance at their shoulders, as his heart speeds up. They give him barely a moment to adjust, before they kiss him. It worsens the pounding of his heart and makes his blood heat, and utterly scatters his thoughts for a moment.

When they pull back again, though, they look so very pleased with themselves that Thenvunin regains his own equilibrium. He smacks the side of their arm in reprimand.

“ _Really,_  Uthvir, you could just go beat up a few recruits, if you are that eager to dominate something,” he sniffs.

They snicker at him.

“It just seems more efficient to satisfy my urge to kiss you at the same time.”

Thenvunin sighs.

“I suppose that is a fair point,” he says, and readjusts his arms around their neck. Their smirk widens into a grin, but their eyes are fond. And their skin is still soft from whatever disastrous potion they bathed in, and Thenvunin finds himself disinclined to even pretend that he minds this, right now. They straighten back up, still holding him, and making very obvious designs on his person.

He brushes a stray braid from their shoulder, and lets himself release the last lingering bits of tension and worry into their arms.

“Oh, go ahead an carry me off, then,” he decides.

“Why thank you, beloved,” Uthvir replies. “You are too kind.”

 

~

 

Fear loves Thenvunin.

But if Thenvunin finds out the truth, then he will be hurt. He will realize that their connection is not what he had thought. That he has given so much of himself to someone who is not an elf, in truth. But is, instead, a collection of broken and disjointed parts, only passing for an elf.

Fear was Sympathy once, though. Fear was a spirit, and a spirit can become an elf. If Fear had taken on a form that was not corrupted itself, then its corruption would have faded, and it would have become an elf like any other. It would have become an elf that could love Thenvunin  _as_  an elf. With more than just devotion.

If it can get rid of the body’s… problem. If it can fully embody the form, then… then Thenvunin will have the love he deserves. Then he will not need to learn the truth, because there will be no lie to their connection. And all Fear need do is remove the proof that could shine a light of doubt upon their nature. Destroy the replacement, destroy Uthvir, become a true elf, and end this danger once and for all.

They…

They must break their contract with the body’s mind to do it, though. Their promise, to this animal they have spent centuries in partnership with.

But it is just an animal. A corrupted, broken remnant, that holds memories of pain. It is an echo. Not… not a person born, like Lavellan or Thenvunin, or a spirit embodied, like so many others. That is the whole reason for their danger, for their strife. Fear should have done this long ago, but the need had not been so great then, and the body’s mind is clever. It understands some things better than Fear does, and when survival had mattered most,  _that_ had mattered most.

Survival still matters.

It just… does not matter more than Thenvunin.

It takes effort to suppress the body’s mind, to put the remnants away. They fight. Of course they do, but Fear is strong, and they are not expecting to be opposed to swiftly and irrefutably. Still, the body’s mind strains against containment. The corruption reaches out, and even moves along the route of that strange connection to Thenvunin, and Fear struggles to reel it in even as they move swiftly to their destination.  _Corruption,_  they think. It should not touch him. Perhaps it never should have, but back before, they did not know that.

They could not have known it.

The Hidden Estate is quiet. Sleeping. The halls are nearly empty, and Fear knows the guards’ routines. Knows the pathways and security measures. Some are new, but nothing is extensive enough to do more than delay them a few minutes while they find an alternate route. Figuring out where the alternate body is takes more time, but there are records, so they make their way to the estate’s healing offices, and find what they need in short order. The alternate body is being housed in a room not far off.

Fear checks the sharpness of their blades, and then goes.

They will do it swiftly, they think. Cleanly. This is not a show for display, nor an act of malice. It will be an efficient kill, and then they will disintegrate the remains, and let the mystery serve itself. No one will care enough about an empty doll’s loss to linger over the issue beyond a typical investigation, and under the circumstances, it might not even take much energy to make it look as though the fool thing tried to flee back through the eluvian, and was lost in that manner. Then they can move on. Fear can fix themselves, and Thenvunin will not have to suffer the knowledge that the elf he has given his heart to has none to offer in return.

They get through the wards on the alternate body’s chambers easily enough.

The form is sleeping on a bed in the middle of the room. Good. Sleeping is good, sleeping is merciful. Fear can end it without the creature ever feeling pain or fright, without struggle, or cruelty. They move into the room, and draw their blade.

And halt.

There is no reason for it. There is enough light in the room, courtesy of its picturesque little window, for them to see by. Moonlight. The figure in the bed is certainly the one they are after. It has been a long time since their body looked like this - fair-haired, soft-featured, all the sharpness gone from it. Lax in sleep, but Fear supposes they should make  _absolutely_ sure. They look closer, watching for several moments, before carefully and slowly shifting back the blanket the figure is covering themselves with. Enough to expose their jugular. The collar they are wearing, and the face.

It is them.

It is…

Fear draws in a long, slow breath, and lets it out again.

They remember that face looking at them.

Not in the body’s memories of its own reflection. But in a moment that, by all rights, they should have forgotten. If they had been properly embodied, it is likely they would have. But they are not properly embodied. They are an abomination, and so their memories of being a disembodied spirit have never entirely faded, for all that time has changed some of the context of them. They remember less about the Fade, but… they remember meeting this form. Figure. This doll, who felt sympathy. Who wanted to be more, who wanted to live, and to understand the world.

Fear stands in the dark and watches the alternate body sleep, and feels the voice inside of them straining. Struggling. Begging to be freed.

They have been afraid for a long, long time. Afraid of many things. They are afraid of dying, and afraid of being discovered, and afraid of losing Thenvunin, and Lavellan, and their life here. They are afraid of this sleeping figure, lying innocently in its bed. And afraid of the knives at their belt, that would cut the life from its body, as easily as anything.

They are afraid this is a mistake. And they do not know if it is.

This is… this is an empty body. Not an elf. A broken thing, feigning such a state. A clever animal. Ghilan’nain’s mistake.

Fear’s reflection.

They should end it. They should. They should end it, they should end it, they should end it…

The door to the room opens.

Fear stills, going rigid. Lost in their dark corner of the room, as light spills in, and an unfamiliar figure stands in the doorway. Only for a moment, before she hurries inside. She is distracted, and does not seem to realize they are present as she closes the door behind her. Fear sees the look of her, though, and recognizes one of Falon’Din’s  _favoured._  There is freshly-haled skin on her neck, and a certain styling to her hair, and the obvious features that he would prefer. Though her body is adorned with a soft-spun dress; a refugee, then.

She moves over to the bed, and settles a basket of things onto the side table next to it. The scent of calming herbs reaches them, faintly. The unfamiliar elf puts a hand down onto the bed, and shakes it just enough to wake their counterpart. In the dark, Fear’s presence remains unnoticed.

“Husk?” the stranger says, gently.

The alternate body wakes. Sitting up swiftly, before the stranger hovers a hand before them.

“Easy,” she soothes. “It is just me. Sorry to wake you, but those others have left to go deal with some trouble or other. I am going to stay here, while they are gone. Just to make sure nothing happens to you, alright? I don’t like the looks of things. Too many people are interested in you, even here.”

The alternate body swallows, and seems to relax some.

“Lialva?” they ask.

“Mmhmm,” she confirms.

“Who did you bring?”

There is a pause. A slight waft of confusion from ‘Lialva’, before the alternate body nods in the direction of the corner of the room where Fear is standing. Then she turns, and Fear knows they have been spotted, as she goes rigid and they feel her fear. One of her arms stretches out in front of the Husk, as she called them. A fitting name. Though she seems intent on barring them from Fear, too.

Good instincts.

“Who are you?” she demands, sharply. “What are you doing in here?! No one is allowed to touch them!”

At her gesture, the lights in the room come on. The alternate body blinks at the sudden brightness, and Fear…

Fear does not know what to do.

Kill both of them? No. This Lialva would not deserve it. They lingered too long, and now they have been caught - and they are not even certain if it is a relief or not. They stand still in their indecision, tense and conflicted, as their features are illuminated. The elf and the not-elf in the room stare back at them, tensed in turn. In broad light, the alternate body looks even more distinctive.

Even more… something.

Alive, perhaps.

 

…Afraid.

Lialva stares at them, and then her gaze darts back towards the basket she brought.

“Guards!” she calls, suddenly. Loud, but, the rooms in this wing are sound-proofed. Fear is not bothered, and the alternate body even reaches out a hand, and grasps the sleeve of her dress. Careful not to touch her skin, by the looks of it.

“They are not here, Lialva. There are no guards outside anymore,” the body reminds her, tensely. Blue eyes regard Fear with a familiar shrewdness.  _Clever animal._

That is all they are.

All they could be.

“Who are you?” the body asks them.

Fear regards them steadily, and finds the answer strangely elusive, for a moment. They are Fear, but the answer is Uthvir. But they are not Uthvir without… they are Fear again, for now. Except that the name feels hollow. Familiar, true, and what they have long called themselves, or… what they have long been called, by the voice struggling inside of them. There is no clear line between Fear and Uthvir, even if there are distinct voices. And their nature has been changing. Perhaps even for longer than they realize. They are Fear, and Uthvir, and Nanane, and none of that answers the question.

“I love Thenvunin,” they say.

Quietly. More to themselves than in answer, but it is perhaps an attempt at an answer. Lialva looks wary and confused, but something like recognition sparks in the body’s gaze.

“You are them,” the body realizes. “The one Lavellan and Thenvunin know. The one they think is like me.”

“What?” Lialva asks, looking between the two of them now.

“The liar,” the body concludes.

Fear lets out a long breath.

“Yes,” they agree. If nothing else, they are certainly that.

“Get out,” Lialva commands, as her obvious distress grows. She is not a combatant. Nor is this version of the body. Fear can tell enough by watching how they move. They are not used to meeting any reward for fighting, or struggling. It is taking an admirable degree of effort to keep from fleeing, and their only recourse right now is to hope that they can chase Fear off. But they have no real threats to offer.

“You… huh. You came to kill me, didn’t you? To keep it secret, that you are like me. You managed to hide it somehow, in this world.”

Lialva tenses, as Fear inclines their head.

“ _No,”_  she says, to their consternation. Moving herself bodily between the two of them. “You have no right! I am Lialva, I am - I am  _Lady_ Lialva, Guardian of the Butterflies, and Husk is one of the butterflies who has flown from Falon’Din’s grasp. No matter who you are, you will  _not_  harm them. Your own lady has granted us refuge here, all of us, and if you reach for your knives I will - I will kill you where you stand!”

Fear blinks.

Husk looks more than a little surprised, themselves.

“Lia, look at them,” they say, quietly. “You are not going to be able to fight them. You should go.”

“We shall both go,” Lialva says, and takes their hand. The body - Husk - winces, as if the touch stings, while she pulls them quickly from the bed. She does not maintain the contact for long, but Fear is faster still, and puts themselves between the pair and the door before they can leave.

What are they going to do?

“Do not hurt Lialva,” Husk asks them. Their fear is palpable, but they are calm, too. Or… resigned, perhaps. They do not want to die, but they have felt the clock ticking for some time now. They have been living with fear for so long, that it has become a companion of sorts.

Less literal than in one life. In this life.

They look at Lialva, who is the wrench in the works now. This strange person who defends someone she knows to be false.

“This body has no spirit,” they try and explain. “But the mind it has means no spirit could ever be truly embodied within it. I have to destroy it. So I can grow a heart to repay the one which Thenvunin gave me. So I can be an elf, so he will not be hurt. I would kill any number of beasts to protect him…”

LIalva’s eyes widen, and she glances between themselves and Husk. And then does so again, her expression shifting as she seems to put the picture together. Fear hopes it is the one that they have tried to convey, that she is realizing her mistake. One of her hands comes up to her mouth, and sorrow steals across her features.

“You are not a beast,” she says. “You are not a  _husk._  Listen to me. Both of you listen to me. I made butterflies, before Falon’Din took me.”

Fear shakes their head.

Butterflies. What do those matter? Fragile things that break so easily. Thenvunin likes them, though. Pretty wings…

“I made butterflies, and I bred butterflies,” Lialva continues. “To make a butterfly, one must take a tiny shard of spirit essence. When you use it, the essence is gone, but the butterfly is made. Spirit essence is not needed to create  _flesh._  Healing magic can do that, even if it is difficult. Blood magic, too. And these are arts that are needed to craft the forms of butterflies as well. So where is the spirit needed?”

Fear blinks. The tiny, golden elf takes a step forward, and to their surprised, pokes them in the middle of their chest. A single finger, prodding sharply at their armour. She is still afraid, but she is determined, too.

“I will tell you. It is in the same place where the spirits of a butterfly’s parents are needed, to lay the egg from which their progeny will hatch. It is in the same place where an elf’s spirit is needed to create Rage or Fear or Love or Desire. Or where a great spirit’s broken pieces are needed, to grow others from the ashes of its demise. To plant a seed, that grows another spirit of its own accord.”

Fear stills. So does Husk, as well. The both of them looking at Lialva in consternation, as settles her hands onto her hips.

“I am sick and tired of this nonsense,” she asserts. “You cannot point to the place where I am different from Husk, you cannot find the thing that makes me a person and not them. Because there is no such thing. We are both people, and you - you are a silly tit who needs to go home and leave us alone!”

Fear blinks, again. Husk looks concerned.

“Lia…” they say.

“No, you look at this fool,” Lialva insists, jerking her thumb at Fear. “You think you cannot survive without Falon’Din’s foul enchantments, but they are at the very least walking around. Dressed like some sort of spiky murder priest and lurking in shadows, but still, walking around, making stupid decisions like every other elf out there.”

“I…” Husk begins, haltingly. They look to be at a loss, and Fear feels again as if they are staring into a warped reflection, as this strange, utterly unfamiliar little elf begins to assert herself so determinedly. She rounds on them again, and gives their chest another poke.

“Is this Thenvunin like Falon’Din?” she asks them.

Fear all but reels back at the very suggestion.

“No!” they blurt, emphatically. “Thenvunin is  _good.”_

“Wonderful. Then go home to him, and tell him the truth,” Lialva instructs. “Tell your daughter, too. She seems kind. So tell them everything, and let them decide for themselves how to feel about it.”

Fear is shaking their head before they even realize they are doing it. They do not manage a reply, before Lialva gestures at them, and then turns back towards Husk.

“See?” she says. “ _That_  is what you look like, when I try and reason with you about this. It is just fear. You are just  _frightened._  That does not mean that what you fear is real, or true. Bad things are not more real just because we fear that they might be.”

Something in Husk’s expression shifts. It looks so unfamiliar, that it takes Fear a moment to place the emotion.

Hopefulness.

A tentative, painful hopefulness, that makes somethng in them sink and soar and revolt in near-panic. They turn, without further thought, and flee the room. Running as much from the voice that is screaming inside of them as from the confusing maelstrom of sentiments and impulses they are too afraid to name. They make their way down the corridor, and back through the hidden tunnels, and then keep going. Caught half between their perception of dreams and the reality of the space around them, until they reach a place where they are surrounded by trees and night.

What are they doing?

…What are they?

Their chest is twisting, so hard that it hurts. The walls that they have held up, the spaces where they have fenced things off, are crumbling. They fight to keep them up, to keep their focus. They find a tree to climb, branches to hide in, and curl in on themselves as their magic lashes up and down the trunk, licking like dark flames while their focus turns inwards, and struggles.

_Uthvir, please…_

No.

They cannot.

They  _can’t._


End file.
